domingo, 24 de abril de 2016

On Concealed Life

It truly is an obstacle, if any are such, to proceed coldly as a squalid pilgrim, feeble in his energy and with a crippled destiny that nobody, but he, knows. Walking unaided through imagination, left to dissolve in time like the sob of an unwary baby, unimportant yet tragic: to be abandoned in vespertine shadows. The beginning, as far as we understand, of a voluntary evasion, an alienated mind seeking warmth in the deterioration of hope… the evanescence of a silhouette blending into the clouds with the last sighs of defeat.
Praised and admired, but inadequate, drowning in the shallowest of seas while leaving a trail underneath the diffuse feet, sparse but ventilated, driving the force of reason beyond its limits to comprehend that which comes of intuition. Atemporal, static, yet the banks extend uniformly, unfolding unto the distance, leaving no motive to follow or to continue. The water is ethereal, surreal, vanishes upon touching, revealing an empty space with no definition, cotton-like but imperceptible.

The gushing waves sieve against his weakness, the clear blue aura blurring the horizon and spreading the field of immaterial consistency in all directions, diffusing itself around the body, now nowhere, firmly attached to the absence of ground, wailing haplessly during its eternal impassivity. And gone.

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