Category: Writing and Poetry
Currently on my IPOD: Phillip Glass: The Hours
Here's a little prose before bedtime...I would wrap you all in a blanket if I could. This may or may not make sense. But who the hell cares, right?
By: Cicily Janus
A daily trip among the living, spoiled. The beauty of death surrounds me. I was truly hoping I could see the world through the two eyes upon my face, but the face was painted with the colors of blindness and despair. For my shades of grey were grayer than the colors allowed through the Crayola accepted norms of societal reflection.
You should have been there. Seeing it with the hollow pits shading the cleft around your nose, the one that sparkled at one time or another, in blue, green, hazel and black. Weren't these gifts handed to you by a Buddha, a God, a being other than the one inside of you for only through others may you truly be born of someone other than yourself. This is not the person you know. This is the self that refuses to gloat, the self that wants to rejoice at the pain of others, yet in the same breath, you reach over, take the mask and place it on yourself before allowing them the pleasure and room, most of all in this claustrophobic prose, to breathe.
I met a man, or was it a woman, child or default of my misfired thoughts and synapses, who overcame this burden, the world inside the picture frame of his consciousness and he was not the better for it. He had become the it we fear, and was worse off than the rest. Rising above the noise and confusion of planetary discourse, he could see. He could open his eyes and see that the wrapping around my face was fresh and for a moment he thought silently and then stopped to ask if I wanted it removed. He asked if I could stand on my own two feet in order to be able to visualize the tragedy that had become of my soul.
Masquerading my fractured emotions, I could only speak with silence upon my lips and the welcomed loss of sight among my once predictable self as the sweetness of bitters fell upon the buds of taste upon my tongue. My weary thinking cap fell off the coarse hairs upon my head and I slept with my thoughts looking for another place, another time. A different day in which I could explore the false judgments of the grim beings inhabiting my space.
Yours in Jagged Edges, Jaded Writings and Just Getting It All Out,