Who does decide the divide between being the fear and fearing the being? Who mistook the easy for the difficult, the delicate for the savage, the infinite for the finished? Although I prescribe the proscribing of seeing the sights as I am fooled to do, I wonder how deep I will discover the discourse of me versus anything but me. The regular and ordinary fears are fighting the mighty mass but I bore through the predicted and now I bow down to the unregulated benign nevus. Because I am outside in and in all the right wrong places for me to resist the oppression. What I admonish to my intellectual shadow is the separating of what presses and what is pressed upon. It's as if I am the forme fruste of my own perpetrator and the incomplete signature of that organized existence you have since breathed into beating. I am eating the dirt for this irony leaves me yearning. Is it irony or paradox or just utter confusion?
I am proving myself right on the history of proving myself right. It saddens me, though, to know that I just desperately want to be wrong. Wrung out and wincing at the sight of my site in this unsated stream of fools fueled by feuds of cover girl and glamor boy. Together they make not even a whole but a hole in the trap to my emptiness. As I look at my fears and note they are not the knot that normally twists in the stomach at night, I know inverted I be. But see, I am unheard and unspoken for, as if my fears were really not that special. Yet I am now closer to not being closed. So I know my fears are feeding right.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
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