Rx
Our hearts fill with darkness, our souls become black.
Days wane, are replaced by eminent night.
Like this we fade away, destined to become a part of the echoes.
Our words, and their meanings, lost amongst the shadows.
Could we have done a thing differently?
I don't think so, there's no going back, once there's been a change of heart.
That's beyond me now, something the past digs up when it's inconvenient.
All we can be sure of, all I can be certain of, is a grainy look at the emotional remains, of anything that once was, remnants of feelings and prejudices and battles now past. Though to recollection they're just as vital, just as anxious as they are in truth, dead. Diseased and deceased I suppose. A bunch of feelings, and thoughts no longer healthy enough to be amongst the living. Still they endure, beyond time they linger, we move on, we move away, but we know the truth is somewhere back there, in time, and in place.
Me?
I like to lay about the graveyard, I'm one of those that like to soak it all in.
Just as sure as it all goes away, the questions do not. Such a clutch of moments, time strung out on a string, a morbid homage to the human condition, the great emotional failures in the face of the noblest and dearest of dreams. Months, years, a lifetime: no difference, time a consequence only in it's limits, never diminishing it's potency. No, no, there's life still after a moment has passed, there'll be remembering yet to do. Hindsight, in all it's glaring clarity, brings to the mind's eye misgivings that may have gone un-noticed to the greater human annals which trace time, but to one who cannot escape his own reality, the infinite realm of minutiae is a world all it's own: things better left unsaid, the voids between hearts which are ever present, and growing til they span impossible distances both in the heart and in the physical world it beats in, as time beats on. Memories like an unsolved murder, the body of evidence in the mind exhumed for further review.
Here's a secret you'll never hear from anyone else but the personified fear:
The past is most clear when it's painful.
And too a warning: an endorsement of the tranquil sobriety which is forgetfulness, if you will. To be regimented strictly when facing the grim pallor of a disquieting moment just now escaped from the grave.
When the patient becomes insistent upon reviewing the sordid details of some detestable series of circumstances over which he or she did not prevail. It's best to view it all with furtive glances, reveal the fear again slowly, take it for what it was: real, at least, if nothing else beyond sinister. Invariably, it's best dosed like an avalanche, as there can be no other way, short of a creeping death of the heart. Engulfed nee ingested through frantic eyes, shaking fingers, and taken deep in to the reeling soul. Allow an instant for it's effects to be procured and delivered throughout the body. Side effects can be dire, and are absolutely expected. Heart palpitations, mumbling, grumbling, and false ruminations, are all par for the coarse sensation that is reliving some mania once endured. For the faint of heart, it is recommended that such things as the past be ingested only through the bottom of a bottle, or the cloudy room of some substance that obscures.
I'll never know what was truth and what was lie, it's impossible to tell what was real beyond the fact that once it was: existence, distance, time. Invariably, you cannot separate the past from the past, more important still, you should never attempt to do so. Failures are just as much a part of life as is death, as is joy.
I can't be near enough to see anymore where it all began, just a stony stare and a brick wall to remind me of things I've seen, and things which I'll never again see. I'm afraid I see only a corporeal Peter's gate, lying behind eyes where once there was such vitality. What has changed? Where does it go? Where does the time go? It's impossible to tell, because you never did, well, you never will. It's best to leave alone dead and buried bones, even if the blood's still warm, it'll get you nowhere, just a heart of stone.
Days wane, are replaced by eminent night.
Like this we fade away, destined to become a part of the echoes.
Our words, and their meanings, lost amongst the shadows.
Could we have done a thing differently?
I don't think so, there's no going back, once there's been a change of heart.
That's beyond me now, something the past digs up when it's inconvenient.
All we can be sure of, all I can be certain of, is a grainy look at the emotional remains, of anything that once was, remnants of feelings and prejudices and battles now past. Though to recollection they're just as vital, just as anxious as they are in truth, dead. Diseased and deceased I suppose. A bunch of feelings, and thoughts no longer healthy enough to be amongst the living. Still they endure, beyond time they linger, we move on, we move away, but we know the truth is somewhere back there, in time, and in place.
Me?
I like to lay about the graveyard, I'm one of those that like to soak it all in.
Just as sure as it all goes away, the questions do not. Such a clutch of moments, time strung out on a string, a morbid homage to the human condition, the great emotional failures in the face of the noblest and dearest of dreams. Months, years, a lifetime: no difference, time a consequence only in it's limits, never diminishing it's potency. No, no, there's life still after a moment has passed, there'll be remembering yet to do. Hindsight, in all it's glaring clarity, brings to the mind's eye misgivings that may have gone un-noticed to the greater human annals which trace time, but to one who cannot escape his own reality, the infinite realm of minutiae is a world all it's own: things better left unsaid, the voids between hearts which are ever present, and growing til they span impossible distances both in the heart and in the physical world it beats in, as time beats on. Memories like an unsolved murder, the body of evidence in the mind exhumed for further review.
Here's a secret you'll never hear from anyone else but the personified fear:
The past is most clear when it's painful.
And too a warning: an endorsement of the tranquil sobriety which is forgetfulness, if you will. To be regimented strictly when facing the grim pallor of a disquieting moment just now escaped from the grave.
When the patient becomes insistent upon reviewing the sordid details of some detestable series of circumstances over which he or she did not prevail. It's best to view it all with furtive glances, reveal the fear again slowly, take it for what it was: real, at least, if nothing else beyond sinister. Invariably, it's best dosed like an avalanche, as there can be no other way, short of a creeping death of the heart. Engulfed nee ingested through frantic eyes, shaking fingers, and taken deep in to the reeling soul. Allow an instant for it's effects to be procured and delivered throughout the body. Side effects can be dire, and are absolutely expected. Heart palpitations, mumbling, grumbling, and false ruminations, are all par for the coarse sensation that is reliving some mania once endured. For the faint of heart, it is recommended that such things as the past be ingested only through the bottom of a bottle, or the cloudy room of some substance that obscures.
I'll never know what was truth and what was lie, it's impossible to tell what was real beyond the fact that once it was: existence, distance, time. Invariably, you cannot separate the past from the past, more important still, you should never attempt to do so. Failures are just as much a part of life as is death, as is joy.
I can't be near enough to see anymore where it all began, just a stony stare and a brick wall to remind me of things I've seen, and things which I'll never again see. I'm afraid I see only a corporeal Peter's gate, lying behind eyes where once there was such vitality. What has changed? Where does it go? Where does the time go? It's impossible to tell, because you never did, well, you never will. It's best to leave alone dead and buried bones, even if the blood's still warm, it'll get you nowhere, just a heart of stone.
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