Weaving Madness (Full Version)

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Jadugarr -> Weaving Madness (2/22/2009 10:49:56)

This story has no meaning.
It was just fun to write.

There are no messages.
No hidden meanings.

Just read it.

:\

And shaddap if you got a problem with what the narrator says.

Comments Thread




Jadugarr -> RE: Weaving Madness (2/22/2009 10:51:03)

Prologue

Gospel of Wealth


My sickness came crawling after the collision; where I diverged from the boils of humanity and demanded a justifiable rationale for human salvation. The tension built itself up, and for the most part I had found it invigorating- it continued to pump the blood from under my skin and gave purpose to the meaningless. I wove my tale on the borderline of breaking, and that is how I spent my life. Two-score till I broke; myself, man on wire.

To take a life, one life at a time, is meaningless; to save a life, one life at a time, is meaningless. So what more can a man strive to do to help society? His tale will end in failure, and only his successors shall be immortalized- he was just the man who paved the path to deliverance, not the one to walk upon it. Sure, I envision a better future; however I do not speak from the vantage point of society, for I have long left my humanity in my trail.

Does justice come to the tragic hero, the sacrificial scapegoat, or do only the innocent shower in their contributions? From the blackest crevasse doth the truth hide, and my knees would buckle before I think twice of venturing into such depths. I know I do not exist for a purpose; I am not here for a trial- to see if I succumb to temptations and lose myself to sin- nor am I here to walk the passage to the threshold of some deity, so until I find inarguable evidence which would suggest me wrong, I exist to simply exist.

A child is forced to cup his hands and beg upon his knees- society bore him an undesirable. Between my thumb and forefinger I hold on tenderly to a dismal dime, but do I hold sympathy? I do not succumb to greed; my concern is for the aftermath of my obliteration. Each step I take, I know that under every footstep curls the withered wing of a pretty butterfly. Existence is quite the gamble.

Concrete silhouettes; all the finer details are hidden in the contrast. Man has secrets, and so be it that man, composed of shame and pride, masks himself from others. It’s only human. I can easily recall time and time again when my stride broke under the judgment of my peers; they claw at you and watch you bleed out. Watch you recover. Watch you callus. You, yourself, become an infection- your thirst grows, all with good intent, because humanity thrives on such a virus. Oh, but the path to hell is paved with good intentions.

I don’t know where to align myself, what my intentions are and shall be. I’m out for a stroll, watching chaos wreak havoc wreaking corruption; as my hand unfolds, the dime rolls from its pocket and down to the cement pavement. It bounces to the grittiness of the curb and not a single soul cringes. Not a single one takes notice. I am free from their grasp, free from their judgment; I am but an entity existing among them, and the feeling could change a cynic to a saint if they hadn’t differed mostly the same.

Seven seconds earlier I could have dropped the dime into the cupped hands of the boy; it would sway from end to end before burrowing into its scrawny new home. The child would find himself at a loss of breath, and would repay me with but an innocent grin- whoring his youth. A man passing by would shoot his upper-lip to the side and growl at me in disgust before emptying his wallet into the boy’s basket of donations. He would damn me without a second thought and forget me the following day.

When the man is buried six-feet under, the boy shall fade from his conscience, but the boy will continue to exist. Not knowing the weight of a dollar, he would have gone and spent it on fashionables once he purchased the essentials for tomorrow’s day, and more dependant he would grow. Desires would become necessities, a costly fate; having his youth years founded on succumbing to temptations, he would soon discover himself on the precipice of his journey. Society bore him an undesirable, and so he shall stay.

The boy, once forced to cup his hands and beg on his knees, would either accept his come-uppance and wither away with the rest of the town, or he would turn the tables on the world which nursed him from adolescence. Should he steal, lie, cheat, or kill- the blood would bathe on my hands- and as man sees me walking down 4th Street, bloodying his roads in innocence, I’ll be sure to tip my hat and tell him, “I’m paving this road for you.”

Oh, but my angst is meaningless; man can no longer judge me.

However, I swear, if man had but one neck, and myself some good intentions…




Jadugarr -> RE: Weaving Madness (2/27/2009 3:29:07)

Chapter One

How the Other Half Lives


"Yet the day is not far distant when the man who dies,
leaving behind him millions of available wealth,
which was free for him to administer during life,
will pass away 'unwept, unhonored, and unsung...'"

~Andrew Carnegie


I had a father; the old man was not abusive- his entire life revolved around sparing generosity to strangers. He drank on occasion, sure, but hardly occasion enough to let it consume his mind. In all definitions, he was a “good guy,” thriving on the joyous appreciation of his sons and daughters, succumbing not to the sins integrated in American society, and spreading his wealth to the poor- it’s a shame the man was blind. The blindness which consumes you, and once consumed myself, is the most prominent fault of man. Colors are just colors; they hold no depth when you are blind. They’re just teachings passed down from your guardians to mould you into another of puzzle-piece society desires. Man is forgetting the meanings behind all colors of the perpetual spectrum.

A plague on our house, I'm afraid; we were unprepared and still far too unwise to foresee and accept the future. Immortality is hell, but only for the immortal. I writhe in abandonment; one can easily choose his fate, especially with man's technological achievements, so why would one wish to discard their heart? The flames cackle as earth and fire finish the cycle of ash to ash. Humanity, memories, and purpose disperse into the night, and time forgets you forevermore.

I am aware of my issues- I know I can no longer deal with them, so I let them burden and let myself scar. It builds character. Which I’m sure I am. Minor nuisances are seldom reason enough to end one’s life, but since all exist to simply exist, entities are free to do what they wish to. Perhaps envisions are my pacemaker- a man can call me out on my slum heritage, but my wealth is apparent. A day is all I can hopelessly dream for, only but a day, where my wealth could be shared amongst the putrid. Gift wrapped with a little, red bow reflecting off the morning haze and dangling off to the side would be a card loosely adhered and signed with my name- my little present to the world.

The world would rain for the last time and I would look up into the sky and watch the gears in heaven strain as they churned. Man would come to a revelation, face momentary rebirth, and live out his days disgusted by his existence- the picture is always an ugly one when things come full circle. Oh, but child would take man’s place soon thereafter and forget the lesson learned. The innocence of society shall be overcome by the innocence of the succeeding generation: the irony of it all. I shall dream for such a day- hopelessly, I shall dream; however, once we meet at eye-level, I shall turn away from such a dream. Call me a saint if you so wish, but there is no reason in destroying man when it is unjustifiable to take the life of a child.

I live by my ethics, I live by my rationality, and I live by my own judgment. Who else is there to rely on? The horrid person who has experienced the world for what it is, he is the seer of this day and age. No longer plighted by the blindness of man, he is capable of viewing the spectrum of colors hidden between the blacks and whites. What a shame it is that he cannot find truth without discovering regret within himself- every step he takes is an assumption, a high-stakes assumption, based on the colors that shine the world.

I must admit that, even after my collision, I still feel the tension. My flesh curls at the notion of diverging back into history- as condition spirals downward, I lock my eyes closed and choke my jaw up as remembering becomes a more complicated process. I may have eliminated the virus of humanity from my mind, but the scars left behind chill my body to its core.

I’m aware of my issues; I had a father. I must admit, even after my collision, I still feel the tension- by my ethics, my rationality, my own judgment.

The world would rain for the last time and I would solely look up into the sky and watch the gears in heaven strain as they churned. A plague on my house, I’m afraid.

-

Your senses numb--they become what they have always been--for the first time, you witness the ice in your veins. The board beneath your feet begins to bend and splinter and there are no more cheers. Motion shall sway and flow in the background haze, for all time has become nothing more than an ended factor of your existence. One final grain sliding from the hourglass; watch it fall and suspend—you see it slide again and again, forever spiraling downwards without progress. Blink once and feel the tug of your deity against your shoulder. He does not beckon. He is the angel of the stairway, dragging you to your inexistence.

She has no beliefs. She is what the world speaks; an angel with a gaping jaw. Once without her wings, she could not possibly stand with feet firm on the ground. Now she is the ultimate good, a being that knows perfect black and white—where colors drain and only opposites can coexist—and speaks with a plastic tongue. She walks onto the first step without a hand to guide her; she will smile through the bend and splinter.

Yet, he was self-aware. He had watched himself bleed and saw the element of his being expire. He stands up afterwards to wipe the blood for his tie and the tears from his face. He wishes to shelter and compose tranquility in all the madness; the jungles will devour the weak, and he shall care for his children so they mustn’t choose chaos or callus. He begins to bleed when he coughs; he ascends the first step and hasn’t the knowledge to know better when the first board begins to bend and splinter against his toes.


*****

Man is but chemistry and conscience interlocked to take form. Amidst their simplicity is the complication to respect them; I dare not take a child under my wing, for I may have to illustrate some admiration. Share my wealth. But to whom shall I be sharing it with? Boys are imaginative, and for half their lives they are love drunk and driven to satisfy society- they’re malleable to the affectionate hands of corruption. Girls have visions of the world that are as complex as a puzzle made of shattered glass- they’re random, they’re seductive, they’re made of sugar, spice, and everything nice- but, then again, so is the Atom Bomb till scorned.

The sun creeps from behind the silhouette of buildings and the sky continues to darken as clouds gather from up above. A stoop deteriorated through time provides me rest for the fraction of a moment. The masses congesting into the streets carry upon themselves the weight of sprung umbrellas blinding them from retribution. They cower like the rats they denounced as scum- unintelligent, superficial, and savage. Cornered through terrorism and apprehensive of reason, they protect themselves from one another. Every man has it in him to kill another- they know that all selves are teetering on the precipice of extinction and they shall take a few extra limbs with them if it’ll grant them one last breath. Yet, they do not realize that man is the harbinger of death.

A droplet of rain treads into befouled territory as it dives head-first into the fractures of pavement. With fingernails outgrown, I peel away the deadened flesh blanketing my forefinger and begin the stopwatch. I observe time, watch it pass me by and watch it forget. Meaningless moments building up the serenity towards mayhem- such a tragedy that this is the constant variable for all. Even when man has nothing else, he still has time.

What was time in the beginning? What did it consist of? What were its intentions? As it moves on, men bleed, children die, faith is questioned; men thrive, children slumber, and faith is lost. An unstoppable force tainted of human intent, disaster dissipates in its path, so where is it heading? Perhaps the whole of mankind is heading for its own collision- the sickness is within the fine details of evolution.

You scrutinize life’s ambiguities and make no progress, while I comprehend the picture full circle and hunt for the rationale. Failure leaves me desperate; my mouth dries and the shallow of man’s desires tastes all too bitter to keep me satisfied. It’s infuriating. With hands interlocked, I clicked off the stopwatch and set it at my side- the rain had ceased. Pavement blackened; a little boy crosses my path. He turns and waves at me before continuing to walk the busied street- no intentions, mindlessly meeting my acquaintance… knowing I should soon forget.

I am not one to forget. Memories bleed themselves onto my skin and each scar becomes more prominent with each passing day. They do not burden- they create. I have merely become another powerful weapon in the arsenal of righteousness.

The stopwatch reads:
8:06.45

-

The distance becomes concrete. Your legs buckle as they begin to take their next step; you are speechless in your transition. It is supportive, it holds to your weight. It comforts you, yet forces you to begin to crumble. You are thoughtless--know nothing to say—but you want to scream. A grain of sand slipping towards a hill of beige, you know not what it will happen, but you can’t help extending your reach to grab at it.

Her smile becomes real; her lips begin to purse and the ecstasy begins to shatter. She turns her head to crowd and watches them cheer with slander. She cannot react, but watches their malice; hate has never been more obvious and she cannot help but reach towards the next step and think it’s not there.

He sat back in a chair, rocking it back and forth, the floor screaming under pressure. He does not take his eyes off the basket overflowing in tissues stained red. He shows concern as he trespasses into ambiguity for the first time. There are no words to express or thoughts to be carried. His feet stumble as he makes his way upon the second step. He begins to blind and smile too.


*****

No life has a value, we all balance mutually at absolute zero. Consider it arrogance that turns my head from the putrid squirming at my waist- they bellow and wail till their voices become hoarse and their throats bleed out. We stand on equal grounds; there is no forgetting. Man was created equal to be deliverance's scapegoat- justice is killing one man to save a thousand, for man is immaculate to the vastness of the cosmos. I have no intent to jump in front of a bullet without the guarantee of catching it in the palm of my hand.

I am no catcher in the rye; I have fallen the distance long ago and am perceptive enough to know it was not innocence that I lost once I collapse over fate's edge. Perhaps I willingly descended, thinking it my ascension from society, but I no longer know nor care- I am here to stay. In all probability, I shall stay here in these lonely depths for man has many willing to catch him. Faith, family, greed, reason. The irrational, fears, love, sanctuary, entertainment, comfort. Sanity, memories, dreams, condition. Blindness.

My voice has hallowed out my memories, a forgotten fragment. My brother remains a gilded god, mother: a melancholic harlequin, and my father a benevolent [---]. This sickness crawls and eats you like a parasite on a rotting host; regret is an enticing narcotic, but I have the good grace to pass it by with a hat untipped. Perhaps it shall come to rain again and the condensation can fog out these temptations.

Man so easily chooses to measure the weight of a life, presume it’s impact, blemish the future. They sentence death so to inflict terrorism on all future hooligans and delinquents- my body cringes at the thought of using torches as butterfly nets. Freely, we suspend corpses of convicts and never feel the grudge of savagery. Two-score I was patriot for terrorism, yet I reflect to see the fruitlessness of our actions: we cleansed the wound by amputating the leg.

Thirteen steps up to the gallows- watch as the earth quakes under each one. The executioner in white straddles a rope around the neck of the scum shallowing out his cries. He is innocent, so they cut out his tongue. As the floor drops from below him, he surrenders to the ultimate, unexisting deity. Watch as the innocent hangs. They refuse to listen to reason; refuse the probability that they have taken the life of a man who has done wrong only on occasion. Society gives their thumbs down as the man takes his final, gasping breath. They are devouring themselves- only one verdict remains suspended in indecision: who shall hang the executioner?

And on that moment hung eternity.

-

Darkness is expressed, and it begins to consume the world around you. The crowd slowly disperses into ash and litters the floorboards, the rest await their fate as they scream their mouths dry. The next step is clarity. Where fate becomes the script written in the winds and the final pages begin to fold. A grain of sand suspends in place. It eyes you; it makes no impression and begins to steal your breath away.

She has been betrayed; welcomed to hypocrisy on an awkward end of the rope. They whispered in her ear and she became their intentions. She cannot help but see her face in the crowd—she can scream, but they shall always scream louder. She witnesses the world begin to crumble because of what she is. She vents in tears. She no longer wishes to move, but is dragged to the next step by her own hand at her throat.

The end is a distant something. His years labeled him young, so he made himself immortal. He began to express his colors and watched them bleed out. As the world began to close him out, he chose to live a smaller life. It slowly consumed his paradise till he was left screaming at the blackness. He attempts to restrain from what has already happened, but those around him force him another step up. He has begun to feel his being fragment.




Jadugarr -> RE: Weaving Madness (3/10/2009 23:03:34)

Chapter Two

Knights of Labor


"I even watched one girl falling. Waving her arms,
trying to keep her body upright
until the very instant she struck the sidewalk,
she was trying to balance herself.
Then came the thud—
then a silent, unmoving pile of clothing and twisted, broken limbs."

~William G. Shepherd


The city is black. It bleeds of men in suits suffocating themselves in factories- they try to make a pretty penny to exchange for another day of famish. They have done no wrong; they are the worthless equals to the man composed of wealthy greed. Perhaps they don't realize social Darwinism has become a scarce ideal- quit acting as though you still dangle at the whimsy of some strings. I have never seen a boy who thought himself a puppet, only ones unaware that they were. What a masterful art of marionettes.

It gnaws me inside- I may not pray at my bedside to protect myself from sin, but I know sin exists. It exists just as I do; it's worthless but condemning, a permanent entity that turns against the blindness of man. Yet sin is a very abstract blemish: it does not affect time, yet all moments are there forth hindered; it cannot touch man, but it throttles his sanity and shoves a gun-barrel down his throat; it would keep men in church on Sunday if only the same men hadn’t burned down the church on Saturday. And now they wonder why damnation breathes down the back of their necks.

My brother is a man composed of sin and self-deprivation. His mind has been clouded over; a clutter of paranoia and shattered memories is the window to his future. Primal genesis exists in many forms, and in each one is it a failure. He is not so much an innocent as he is a cretin- an oaf who stumbles upon his own two feet trying to get somewhere he has no reason to go. The street screams in a putrid tongue as it drowns out all the undesirables; my brother stands with his face pressed up against the glass, curious to what pain truly feels like. To him, the world is just a blank page in a lengthy novel- and he’s left wondering where the story has gone.

He is simply a man relative to myself, and society, in the most miniscule of fashions. He exists for the same reason I exist, and his scars derived from the same blade. He must have bled out more. He relished the sugar and sweets, consumed them, and devoured any remnants: just a ravenous child who clutched his heart in hands and wrung it for the good of man. Now he stands slathered in his own blood; his pockets jingle to the cacophony of his barren wealth. There shall be no love for the damned, nor for the gilded god who leads them.

The streets are bloated with gluttony.

-

Welcome to the winded plain. Expressionless emotion for a brief moment; you breathe in fear and begin to suffocate. Whether you scream your heart out or watch your ascension in silence, you take a moment to take everything in. The terms of your living have been defined, and you have been deemed unworthy beneath the laws you helped create.

Her back blisters as her wings begin to fade. She ages and the world turns in disgust. She knows where it all started, and how it shall all end, yet for this very moment, she knows nothing. She blinks away the tears and watches her face glisten. She feels the melody and hasn’t the sensation to know why she cowers. Everything becomes a purpose without meaning, and she brings herself to the fifth step.

That morning, he wakes up and watches his ceiling dance. He understands nothing and gambles with his own mortality. People begin to look at him with concern and he jokes off the tension. He no longer smiles or feels the time pass through his fingers. He pushes his hand against his chest to feel the air he breathes. He stumbles and is forced another step up.


*****


It is a Jungle; it has industrialized itself through revolution and now devours itself and lives forever. Forever. Time scrapes it’s nails against the back of my mind once again, and all I can do is stare in ambiguity like a crippled child decomposing amongst the rats and anticipating his fate. Conscience is the thin line which separates man from beast, and they no longer give a damn how many steps back they take- bearded with flecks of foam, they continue to praise the universe for how simply they perceive it. Perfection is just a day away, on a bloody Sunday.

Man can learn, but he requires failure and time; however, failure has become an abundant variable that matters little, and time itself seems to have become so scarce that it is too delicate spend on the immaculate failures. Buildings need to crumble, lives to be sacrificed, and women to be slaughtered; if people do not blister their feet upon the blacktop in riot, crying out in bloodlust, for the scales of justice to be harmonized, then time will wave failure off into the midst of the universe’s continuum. Revolution is a memorial for only the important of dead; what ever happened to the men in my hot dogs? Oh, that’s right, time forgot them.

It rains once again, and again I start the timer. Time flashes before my eyes, and I find I have no recollection of any of it; one second ago I had not realized it was one second ago- it was then, it was now: the moment in which all things exist. A minute ago, I would have never presumed that, a minute from then, I would be contemplating that minute. I regret wasting neither that second nor that minute. Hours, days, weeks, so on and so forth, they all hold substance: they all hold memories- mementos of those minutes and seconds which I blatantly ignored. If I could go back, I would never go back to a second or a minute; I would go back to an hour, day, or week and lose my regrets.

I see a fat man scurry his way across the sidewalk; the pouring rain drenches him from head-to-toe. Before he can pass me by, he slows his waddle and turns to face me. Disgust curls his upper lip and he feels compelled walk up to me and remove his coat. Three days earlier, I hear the voice of a child, and for the first time in over twenty years it is directed at me. Now I sit draped in the coat of a stranger; the intentions are black and white, the ambiguity rest in the unexisting gray- you’d have to be blind not to see it. All men turn black- it’s only a matter of time. But, dare I ask, why? I stop the timer.

There are bodies hitting the pavement all around us, and we can’t see where they hit the ground for the streets are already swathed in corpses. All you can hear is the thud.

I can feel my brother looking down upon me and trying to squish my head between his thumb and forefinger. For the first time in over twenty years, I look up into the sky, and through the reflection of window-glass, I meet his eyes. He realizes that terrorism works, and knows the country loves him for using it.

I cry.
I look down at my stopwatch.
It reads:
8:09.45
And I smile for the last time:
A meaningful second.

-

You are captured in pictures of yourself. The smile stretched across your face is the same one on you now. Disillusion causes you to repent reality and you watch as your hourglass flips on its side. You are free from the strings of conclusion. You paint the world from its ashes and reconstruct the world as you knew it. The screams become joyous and symphonic—you cannot help but feel your breathe leave your body as you take a step down. You are welcomed home to your hellish cackles.

She no longer cares to admire the mirror. She is a goddess who sees everyone staring at her curves and are brought to tears by her golden smile. There are bodies with colorless eyes that watch as she flips her hair and struts down a step which ruptures under her heels and she is forced to stumble onto the frying pan.

They are immaculate. His being has been divided and now he lives on in his youth. They split apart and take different paths in their lives. They become successful but always manage to maintain on the feet they first crawled against. He learns to feel his unimportance when it comes to caring for the true successor of his being. He watches them play, and as he takes a step down the plank underneath his shoes gives and he begins to suffocate on the blood clotting in his throat.

*****


Existence brings with it its own impression upon the world. Some choose to question their own impact, yet they see before themselves the havoc in their wake. Man may choose to bleed himself in order to feel his own existence; I argue, you can bleed and still not exist. If time is being measured correctly, then I currently stand at the threshold of hell. Doors open for a figure draped in rags, and he makes his way through the valley of flames- the wailing of the damned force him to claw at his ears till he can hear no longer. I’m going to bleed the devil and prove his inexistence.

I caress my scars- enflamed, they burn at the touch. Tragedy is exemplified in the hero ignorant of his weakness- that is man, he is tragedy. Memories fill my lungs with blood, and breathing is no longer a subconscious second-thought; it is my only task. Concrete is the fact that I shall shatter before I face my brother for the last time. Within hell, I wrought the bleak, I disturbed a twisted paradise- I turn my back and walk out hell’s front door, and it closes itself behind me. Out of the frying pan, into the fire.

A sound of thunder: glass shatters from the building above, and I watch as time weaves the improbable into reality. A small mass of people gather around the building entrance and glare, awestruck, into the clouds. Their arms cringe as they grasp the afternoon mist. Their visions have been blurred, but man relies often on making blatant assumptions of his own. His prejudice drives him to blood-drunk insanity, incapable of practical reasoning. For what reason is there to stare into the eye of god and expose your blackness? You see sacrifice and refuse to stop it before happening; now men throw themselves from buildings and you refuse to shed a tear, just your fraction of your acknowledgement. Rest well, scapegoats, time shall forget your pain.

As I turn away, I hear the sound. Revolution. For a brief moment people believe: revolution. Fascinating and terrifying. Devastating, full of promise and great foreboding. Yet, the promise soon disperses, and I glance back at the corpse splattered upon blacktop. Today, a god died- and society mourns for the corrupt.

At the end of the world, humanity shall see what I have done.

-

The paint begins to smear and you realize you’ve only taken a step closer to your fate. The sand continues to fall in the hourglass tipped at its side; your perfection has drawn the dagger to your back and all your true emotions come screaming through the hole in your spine. You grab out at the air trying to grasp on a constant to maintain your hold. The stairs thin and your breath heavies; welcome to the chokehold of death, where the ice in your veins petrifies and you are left a quivering statue.

As she tumbles to the ground her face begins to melt with the world. With flesh and blood imprinted into the concrete she attempts to pick herself up from the ground, her arms fold before she can move her face from the sidewalk. She is suspended in an open world trapped from all movement—she cries against the floor and watches as the sun dries the sidewalk. She wants to scream but she can’t find herself to breathe. She holds her throat open and ascends the next step.

He glazes the blacktop as he releases the blood lodged in his throat. With his hands soaked red he commits the selfish act of burdening only himself—their backs are turned in the distance, he watches his ashen reflection. Control and sanity; he suffers for himself and himself only. He wants himself to be raised on a cloud, but now they shall feel the fall to earth.




Jadugarr -> RE: Weaving Madness (3/29/2009 1:41:04)

Chapter Three

The Manhattan Project


The effects could well be called unprecedented,
magnificent, beautiful, stupendous
and terrifying.
No man-made phenomenon of such tremendous power
had ever occurred before.

~ Thomas Farrell


It begins to rain.

Society, itself, was once perfected- man, however, was insatiable. The American dream was integrated, and the people withered from their core. Animas putrefied. The hearts hallowed; only faint echoes could be heard inside, wailing as they dispersed into an utter blackness. Only the shell remained, cold and entertained.

Rats scurry at my feet, and at my side individuals far more malevolent and viral. They lecture their children on the practice of self-indulgence, the concept which leads man to the monopoly of putrid. You walk this path your entire life, no matter what kind of man you are; subconsciously, you are forever walking down the path to self-prosperity. I recall facing the flare of hatred. The judgment passed down by man is the ultimate fate of your destiny- righteously, he is the judge, jury, and executioner. Prejudice: his gallows by which his victims hang.

What happens when you reach the top? It is the manifested American dream to envision a future superior to our own. Yet, now you are at the peak- standing with your toes curled over the edge of a skyscraper in the skies. You are the angel of death- you can try to spread your wealth amongst the poor, but a dime would splinter bone from such a height. Clouds gather at your waist, and tears freeze before you can weep. You step out into the clouds, and realize you are dead. You died before you could hit the pavement.

A useless corpse unburied in a cemetery of those dead and awaiting to die- man damns you for thievery; may the ravens peck out your flesh as you rot above soil. Only by the flip of the coin did my brother find eminence: he was the city’s beloved for symphonizing the cacophony of crime. Crime is far too much of an abstract word- what he did was emphasize the destruction of man. He erased the intolerance for the infliction of genocide. Because of him, man can mass-murder without sympathy. Because of him, man’s next war shall be fought with sticks and stones.

My fingers pinch and blister themselves upon pavement as I stumble to the ground. In order to protect oneself from the sensation of fear, he needs to inflict fear upon another. As tension overcomes the strings of man, leverage becomes the concept of scorn. Man begins to feel fear for the first time- they become the caricature of their truest emotions- black. I roll against the brick lining of the building and stare blankly into the night atmosphere. The stars shine too brightly; they blacken the void behind them.

The rain ends.

Society was once perfected, but man desired more. He demanded the bloodshed to end all bloodshed. I shall grant him the retribution.

-

Scream, cry, scratch and pull. A grain of sand falls closer and you feel yourself reach your climax of madness. You are left in a box half your size and the more air you breathe, the less air you have breathe.

She clutches the ground and her nails rip against the jagged belly of the concrete. Her head viciously beats against the ground as she wails till her eyes dry up. He grabs her and tells her the only thing that comes out of his mouth is more of his own blood. He screams and she is tossed to the ground where she curls and begins to weep. She can hear him break apart, hear him rip open, hear him choke on his own blood—until she becomes deaf to the world.

They ascend the next step in perfect disharmony.


*****


To wake up dazed, your body quivering- drenched in a cold sweat, it is an every morning. Hours suppress the body, the headaches cease, and all that remains is mornings’ mementos of forever. Yet, I can sleep easy knowing I shall wake again. With bones bludgeoned against the sidewalk, and flesh bruised to harmonize to all shades of red, walking is not my most favorable act of transportation. Rather, I sit upon an eroded flight of steps and watch the world play out from a harmless vantage point. Watch in silence as man bluffs his hand.

To spite brings forth the omniscious perspective of human error: every flaw, every fracture of the character, no diamond could be as immaculate. I can see the dignity seeping from their masks- they are a closet full of skulls, and I’ve just stumbled upon the door. In the dreary, ‘change’ is slathered in blood against a cement complex. It’s hidden in the darkest shadow of the tallest building; they gorge me with doubt and I am forced to wonder if rats have finally learned to write. From end to end to end, I want you to paint me a picture.

Life is birth’s tangent to death. Once things spin full circle, you’ll realize you’ve gotten yourself nowhere. There is no ultimate meaning, yet man is suspended in perpetual disbelief; the light shines at the end of the tunnel, and all else is an empty silhouette. He shall interlock his fingers and pray on his knees till tears turn to dust, but the light always shines just as bright. He can run till his knees buckle, drag himself till his nails splinter off- and finally he will crawl through the illumination only to look up and see the light shining at the end of the tunnel once more… as he experiences death for the first time. Because only a dead man can draw a perfect circle.

Who’s the asinine fool? Who is the man that crawls in your skin, who you would as soon tear him out even at the expense of your life? The flappers smother the streets in their slander and sex, and they create reason to riot- they are the caricature of the future, the sexuality that man demands. Parents discipline their children by forcing them to become the scum of the streets- watch as their minds foul and fold. Teach them to never lie, cheat, steal, or drink- so they lie, cheat, steal, and drink. I’ve seen poison kill a man faster than he could suffer, a bullet pierce a man’s head before he could hear the shutter of the rifle. Men can lose themselves in technology, do we damn the Einstein for his good intentions? You can lose yourself in the rhythm of your heart, the rotation of the world seems to slow, everything seems to lose its meaning; we condemn the sociopath but hang the psycho- where do we draw the line on the precipice that separates the two? So I ask, who’s the asinine fool?

I can hear the sound and the fury, it cries and I can never comprehend ‘why.’ You can only tread so far before you quickly cut and fade to black. It has been ages since beauty has danced in the wind- now man demands flash and petrifaction. As much as it burdens me to openly admit, neither me nor man is yet dead- we both blindly assume what shall happen when the gravel road ends. The earth tremors beneath every step.

And only a dead man can paint me a perfect circle.

-

When all is said and done, you’ve still the distance to travel. You see the stairway rise into the darkness and you begin to fold and shatter. This is where you screams die out and your tears run dry. Your voice becomes nothing more than a whisper in the wind; you begin to rebirth.

She whimpers and her voice hallows. She beats the ground with her hand and leisurely closes her eyes. He walks up to her and witnesses his own pain. With a china shard stuck between his thumb and forefinger he walks over to the sink to wipe the blood from his hands and face. His screams turn to a voiceless moan and he hangs his head against the running sink. He listens to the sound of the water rushing down the drain. He picks his she from the floor and ascends to the next step and watches the world from a grain of sand.


*****



Propaganda of fear finger-painted red, slathered across a brick on an apartment wall. It emphasizes the fear: the haunting presence that throttles man in retribution. The ugly face of nature. I can feel my heart throb whenever I look upon the most hideous tree in thriving bloom; it is all the beauty of the world, the tragedy of humanity’s impact. This is how nature has callused; malice crackles in the flames of war as it melts and reconstructs. Humanity is the permanent scar; as the curtains close, Creon looks upon himself and experiences the tragedy.

Confusion of the concrete fear and the abstract worry--there is little to wonder for how a race of people can become so intertwined between meanings. Fear is not free will—you do not fear to fear as you do worry to worry. You writhe; you gaze upon the immaculate, see the colors absorbed and the reflections they shine. If truth does not derive from fear, may I be damned.

Worry is an ecstasy; wreckage and affliction, simple burdens of possibility—nothing is imminent, and it serves the lone purpose of self-indulgence. Worry has its comeuppance; such a fragile flaw that cheapens the soul, yet grants man his deliverance. I secede. You can build a petrified man and not a single being could look into his eyes and perceive his worries.

Gaze into the heart of worry, and you can build a fear to petrify any man to the mallow. They shall suicide what is left of themselves- what breathes; hung from a rope in their closet, and in the shadows their corpse lurks; wrists slashed with flesh and bone interlocked, and hairs between razor blades as they lay in bathtub, they will bury under dirt and tears shall dry in the shallow of two weeks; they shall fall from buildings, but the buildings shall not be tall enough for a tragedy.

There is a seed- it shall wither in the soil and rain; it is nurtured from concrete and blood. An everlasting parasite, it will never blood. It takes shape from concept to substance, but a seed it shall always stay. It is the creation of societies past and present. We have chosen to modernize the abomination, we just weren’t aware of it.

What it once was—for abominations never were abominations prior to being abominations—has become lost to man. I could never perceive my own tears till the fall from grace; I saw the splatter. He cheered, did man. Manipulated by posters and colorful moving pictures, subdued by the greed-eyed beast. Meanwhile, all the meanwhile the might of two factions was conclusively being measured. As they looked into the sky, they seemed to gaze into the heart of fear.

“But their eyes were watching god,” (Zora Neale Hurston).

A little boy fell from the heavens and in the end there was only tragedy.
I witnessed the splatter.


I listened to man whisper.
“I am become death.”

-

From dust to dust and nothing more. This is the essence of your being; you can scream or wail, but you have come to enjoy the silence within you. No longer are there the screeches of cacophonic tragedy. You are nothing more than you started out. From dust to dust and nothing more.

Her eyes are shut as she listens to her own heart beat. A quite drum against the concrete, it sings her a soft melody. It is a curious sound and it brings her to the precipice of slumber and back. Her eyes open and all she sees is the dust.

He sits down at the table and pours himself a glass of wine. It massages the edge of the glass as it rides its way in; he watches the flow and feels the comfort to breathe air for the first time without anxiety. He presses his lips up to the glass and allows the aroma to fill his lungs before setting it onto the tablecloth. His wife wipes away his tears. He takes her by the tips of her fingers and leads her up the next step.




Jadugarr -> RE: Weaving Madness (5/14/2009 23:33:23)

Chapter Four

War on the Homefront


"All items carried will be securely packaged,
tied and plainly marked with the name of the owner
and numbered in accordance with instructions obtained at the Civil Control Station.
The size and number of packages is limited to that which can be carried
by the individual or family group."

~ Wartime Civil Control Administration,
Evacuation procedures for Japanese-American residents


I do not despise the embodiment of man—the shell that walks and interacts. There is no regret; a son can love his mother for being his mother whilst knowing nothing other than his own inherent affection. It is all that, yet never so simple. It is not by logic or ultimate innocence that draws and connects; [man can only be with instinct]. Society raises order on the pedestal; it demands the perfection—our superegos to guide. For what is man but an animal sliding along the scales of justice. Perpetually unbalanced, morally distraught, and a commercial for sin. Hope is for the chance that order shall suffocate under the weight of the medals strapped around its neck.

The woman has not seen me since I was an immature. I’ve seen her since. She has aged—the mirror makes her look pretty. Perhaps the reflection holds her aspirations: reasons to wake and hurt, reasons put on her make-up, reasons to fit into her red dress. Yet, occasion can make the corpses walk to their graves. She is a hysterical one among hysterical others. Voices to fill the void of silence. This is the world as she would have remembered it. This is the world she believe she is a part of. Mother, sweet mother, the world you have birthed me to; mother, sweet mother, a playpen to your grave I have sentenced you.

You rest in a chair, and a woman begs you to keep your wake. Her eyes sparkle as your own dim—where have your memories gone? Your face has wrinkled through time and all it reflects is what used to be a smile of lament and happiness. Perhaps you are absent. Perhaps you have been misplaced. Oh, mother, sweet mother. You stare back at yourself through the mirror as you are painted pretty with purple lipstick and luscious products of the sort. What is it you see? What are you looking past? Time has gone, wished you’d not have waved it by? Oh, mother, sweet mother.

It is time for you to fit into your red dress. It shall sparkle and shine for what you wished to have been. May I ask what is the occasion? To put on your red dress and not have the soul to laugh heartily into the mirror? To whatever fate has met you, I see it grim. Do not hesitate. If you live now, there is still a life to be had—do not play it hallow, for I can still sense your desires. Oh, mother, put on you dress and look yourself in the mirror, you’ll know it’s still there.

And as your arms buckle as you push yourself from the chair, with the arm of your assistant wrapped about your shoulder, you will beg her to zip up the back of your dress. I know it will still fit you as if it were meant to. But, oh, mother, sweet mother, if you look into the mirror I shouldn’t think you shall come to laugh. Oh, mother.

That black dress does not sparkle and shine. When you look into the mirror, your eyes just seem to cloud. What happened to the memories? To you aspirations? Where is your laugh? Oh, mother, I can hear such a sweet symphony coming from outside. Cover your eyes as the hearse comes to pass—just close your eyes and listen closely. Do not cry. Just--lose yourself in the splendor of the requiem.

Oh, mother, sweet mother…

-

Your eyes seem to haze over. Your jaw drops ever so slightly, and you are left staring as the ashes. You have no halo to hang above your head, no self to concern yourself with. You are empty. For a brief moment you are the caricature of absence.

She opens her eyes to the concrete jungle. She looks but makes no impression.

He sits in his chair and stirs the wine in his glass. He moves but feels no motion.

They take another step up and reconstruct themselves.


*****


The devil is a lie even he can believe. Perhaps it is Stockholm syndrome. Blind yourself in unreason, falsities, and faith and you shall become seduced and hypnotized—grant them a finale, and surely they shall gather. It is the hope and reason for hope and reason. Trapped in your wheeled chair, the basis to your madness is illogic; you blame yourself and your damn bokononism. Even if you could walk, you can’t, you have done what you have done and because of it, that is what you shall do. Your chaos constructs the Dues ex Machina, and through structure the devil emerges from the machine.

Due to the fate of probability, it is the constant of variables to act indecisively. Watch for where you waver, for if your toes curl against edge of a drop, your end game shall be unforeseen. It is by no will, but due to existence itself. Everything is possible and the improbable are definite. Existence is quite the gamble. It was today I saw the body of a boy propped up against the blackest of an alleyway—his hands cupped, a pale face pure and a body emaciated. Whether he lives now or died a day before, he is no longer innocent; he is one of many—the ‘trash’ that litter the sidewalks—and it only takes so many people passing him by before he realizes no one cares for the small boy decomposing on a sidewalk infested with vermin. Man bore him an undesirable, and so he shall stay.

Innocent implies opportunity unmeasured. Yet time leads every born man to die upon the same bed—sooner or later everything oxidizes. Now they expect the man of gold to slide a few toes over the counter to help reconstruct the air they breathe. Their nation shall acknowledge them, and once the man of riches stands upon his own two feet and realizes there are no two feet to stand on, society will be there to ship him out before they close his eyes. Who shall care but the mother with tears in her roses wondering where all the laughter has gone.

There is no one left to worry about the shadow touching their children. Time has led to conclusion upon conclusion—events shall occur and there is no impact I shall ever make upon them. No contribution I can make to such an extent. Impatience is hardly a factor, but in search for reason, I find man with his sins so multidimensional. One day he shall look to the skies and see how much of a fool he was. I’ll be nothing more than the silhouette with a shovel, and behind every man shall be the shadow of his grave.

Give him the world, and show him the hell. Perfection shatters into tragedy, and who shall be there to blame? The man who slaughtered his family and had enough time to down a beer before dealing with the corpses bleeding out on his new carpet.

“Tiger got to hunt, bird got to fly; Man got to sit and wonder 'why, why, why?' Tiger got to sleep, bird got to land; Man got to tell himself he understand.”
~Kurt Vonnegut


-

Now you feel the pressure. Feel the ashes recreate themselves; you are reborn, and before the final grain of sand escapes, you take one last breath to scream.

She screams.

He screams.



*****


There is no heartless—to whom do I owe the sympathy? I am quite partial to the concepts, as pure and improbable as they are; you cannot perceive all the faults within a system so complicated that you are, quite simply, just a part of. It shall drought, and men shall drown in the rain. Look up to the empty skies and believe your beliefs. You cannot fix anything; any attempt to do so is complete ludicrous. Now, pick yourself up from your chair--you haven’t the feet to walk, but I haven’t danced in ages.

We can control nothing—all we can do is influence the outcomes, and that is how the world came to be. That is what’s most disgusting: man is not a product of design, there was no scheme--only the plausible factors that could twist the social evolution of man. Some would say that man is an improbable miracle, yet they never rationalize from anywhere other than their emaciated throne—a shallow vantage point from which the hallow whisper softly, and the world begins to quake.

Concrete wasteland. Under the haze and hustle, man’s lips crust and he begins to envy and lust. It has not rained in quite some time, and the tension is driving everyone a little bit closer to midnight. The blood is beginning to scab over; etched in the streets, these are the shadows that shall mark the existence of an archaic society. The end is inevitable; give a man a diamond and all he will see is the sparkle and shine.

In the end, there was only the end. There were no moments before, they were just the end. It has already been decided: everything ends the same. Every action is absolute before it occurs, and once it passes, it never happened. That is simply the beginning. Everything is set, and all that was set was absolutely for naught. There is no justice, there is no reasoning--in the end there is just the quick, cut to black.

Sin can bury six feet deep. It does not expire from the ashes. Burdens carries from beyond the grave, no matter how many petals and tears bind to your burial. There are four tombstones. Two are still reserved, and obligations cause me to visit. There are some that have gathered and gone, but a few remain. They are mostly leeches—their lips quiver, they restrain; no need to drool upon a sacred tombstone before the reading of the last will and testament can begin. He may have been a man of nature, but the dog has lost his lead.

I have already interfered with the natural order—spared the bloodshed to trigger more bloodshed. The oaf was stumbling about in a minefield and he saw nothing on either ends. Aggression can only cause more aggression, and fear becomes an offensive opportunity. War is a constant, an inevitability. In perspective, there is never a good and evil—there is only right and those who defend whatever ‘right’ so happens to be. War shall be, and no fourteen points will ever amount to do a damn thing.

In the end, war shall have been set and gone. Scars shall have never truly existed. There will be no sanctuary, no doubt, and in the final moments, we’ll all have learned how to stop worrying and love the fools.

-

As you reach the twelfth step, you can feel the staircase begin to crumble behind you; you find new breath and never even spare a glance behind you. You are innocent. Your blackness has been torn from beneath your skin, and know you stare unknowingly upon the final step which awaits you. They do not wish to murder you. They grant you the ultimate escape—you will no longer have to be. You were dead before you were born, and now you make your move for the final step.

She closes her eyes and slowly lets go of her breath. She thinks of no one but herself.

He locks his eyes shut as he begins to suffocate. He thinks of no one but himself.



*****


It’s slate of the meaningless. You see images that are never there, you become your own knowledge—it torments you. These are aspects of yourself which may never have happened or could come to pass, but in their own way, each of them composes your very being. You can perceive roses, or you will confine in the ash and blood. They are colorless, so you falsify them; see what you want to see, you’re only looking in a mirror. You’re a goddamned Rorschach, a blob without a mouth.

Perhaps you have conducted your wrongs, adhered to deceit, and winded to what love is. Irrelevant. For you, it is all irrelevant. You are welcomed to death, the paradise you never sought till the moment you drew envy and craze. You’ve seen how perfection cradles. So you’ve lied. You’ve lied to keep the tremors from shifting the sands on which you stood from crumbling your embrace. It has been told over and once again, and deep within your falsehood, where structure is the accumulated madness, you ask yourself how many times you and speak the truth till it becomes a lie.

With one final breath, you wouldn’t go out in a whimper or sigh. A desperate traitor who has already lost, still idolized by the people he chose to damn in his final moments. Man has sung his name, and vintage wine painted the walls. He is not you. One of them was wealthy, the other- a dead weight. Both thought too much of themselves. You were blood-drunk; never took the time to vent and spread your wealth amongst the pride, those who reflected your image. They were the plague, you became the plague, and in your final moments, you finally surrendered to time.

You do not abide. What I have done, no person can advocate—to the mallow, it is sickening, but I am action. I must admit to plank and corpse, defiled and turned about, I have stolen all of your skin. They may defile your operations of gluttony, but I have made claim to your wealth. Perhaps before the sun becomes nothing more than an eternal blanket of dirt, you would like to take one last gasp. Feel yourself suffocate as you breathe in. I want to hear you scream. Dead man. I want you to scream till the blood empties from your lungs. I’m sorry, dead man—dog—dead, you can’t scream without a mouth.

It has not rained. I can feel my own veins running dry; it’s quite stimulating. Perhaps it is the impression I leave upon the dirt as I pass over it. Time is an endless drain of sand, and it seems to be running out. There are three graves left unburied, in one lies the caricature of perfection and tragedy, in another, a fool endowed with halo and horns. Both are painted dark. They represent everything I have found wrong. Don’t laugh. The blind man is choking on Pareidolia; don’t break the fourth wall. God is suffocating on the dramatic irony.

He is pleasure and sin. She is blindness and false satisfaction. They shout from shoulder to shoulder, deafening rational thought and substituting it with tainted conscience. It is almost heavy. It almost ceases my stride. But I sit. For time shall always come to pass, I will always come back to sit. To observe and correct the faults in their own steps. They are good intentions; yet, now I’ve aspirations to wish and a well to throw my pennies in.
I could turn water into wine, but I shall consider poison. One will kill him, but the other will get him drunk enough to stumble off the edge of this manmade abyss.




Jadugarr -> RE: Weaving Madness (8/2/2009 23:10:10)

Chapter Five

The Thirteenth Step

“It worked.”
~J. Robert Oppenheimer


There is no thirteenth step. Everything is over once you count to twelve; they give themselves up, they were always dead before the rope even wraps about their neck. They think themselves pure in their final moments—right before they choke on their own blood and leave you to fall—and that is all they will every think about, for in the end, everything is already over.

They are dumbfounded, then struck with confusion to what they had done wrong. They come to their revelations, but begin to suffocate before the impression can scar. Once they deny, they will begin to fear. They shall reach their climax of suffering, they will break down, and they will return to their dust. It leaves them hallow, and before they can recompose they release their final scream. Just before the end. They are perfect, and to those so innocent and perfect, I owe my sympathy.

But in the end, everything they ever were exists at the moment they are extinct. Only a fool can think himself so free that he can jump from the tallest building at his highest moment and assume that people shall think of him only how we was in those final moments.

I am standing at the peak of my ascension, and I look amongst the man who thinks himself immortal. With mountains of gold flowing from my hands I look up towards the sky—among the man just the same as I, turned away from me, facing the thirteenth step. We stand among scum, they audience laughs at the dramatic irony.

I take a step back, and I watch the eyes of man follow me as I turn to the hooded figure. He waves me by; the rope drags down the front of my face, and I can see the clouds begin to stir in the sky. I toss my hands up; at my sides hang lifelessly a man younger than myself—his hair hides his horns—and a woman, whose red dress makes her look pretty—her wings have been torn from her back. I choose neither.

The gold hits the pavement.

Now we’re all fools.




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