When the world ends, all that ever remains is the faint scent of your hair conditioner.
If ever, if only I am able to articulate my mind finally, open my mind to the world, everything will pale.
But here I am, the perfect cage to hold in the sun of my mind.
The perfect idiot.
I have some time, I thought right square this seven pm. The record store's a stone throw away. I should just pop in and see how the world has changed in my absence. It has. The Cure, Kaiser Chief and Keane each released an album.
The perfect hermit.
I have this story on Cosmic R. Set in motion of now and years unborn of five hundreds years. It will be rich in history, karmic revolutions, physics, human triumphs, freakish characters, human decline and sentinel planets. A love story. It will always be a love story. There is nothing greater than a love story. Everything should be about a love story. A love story that I could never have. In Cosmic R, love though indestructible, will never be found.
What's the season of love if you can't love anyway?
I woke up at four in the morning and set my world to snooze. Woke up five minutes later and set it to snooze again. And again and again. Five O five. Five ten. Five fifteen. Again and again until the sun came up on six thirty five. How amazing is the tiny button called snooze? It gives you assurance of your liberty before you wake up to a world that will snatch it right away. Right away, Sire.
Terra in Cosmic R doesn't have two things; sun and liberty. Multiverses multiplied and vibrated like deranged molecules, characters are shitty two dimensional, they are ceramic dolls, motifs' a moot, stories overlaps and refuses to seam. Truth, beauty and meaningful murders will be lost in my abyss. I can only resort to angst writing and rhyme fuck with fuck.
I listened to The Cure's
The perfect boy.
I sat in front of the computer hours later. My bedhead's to aside, my right hand possessed a will of it's own. It subscribed to a religion, the religion believed that with enough scratching of the head, eventually the scalp rots and gives way to the wisdom within. My right hand is devout and zealous. Sniff and scratch em'.
If only I could articulate my mind.
The perfect If.
No comments:
Post a Comment