As a soul taken with souls, I was apprehensive and cheerful. The lithe of the forehead, the third-eye, seemed grace enough. I remember becoming grief, morose, sorrow; I remember being happy, alive, with power; I remember the onslaught. I drank anesthesia, so it seemed, becoming a seeker, a creature of the esoteric, now apprehensive of the extra-perceptions. I remember the sickrooms, filled with happiness, no one knew we were ill; so incautious back when; catalogued as doctors; knowing more about behavior than willing to suggest—ignoring how it unfolds. Diffident souls; meaning, shy souls: chasing results, finding what we sought. The mind would bend reality; the winds would visit for a time; before the torpor would settle in—apathy, that is. Such creatures, servile to pain, with hell to resist in becoming freedoms; so destitute, the narrator is telling some story, on some plain, the tobacco seemed necessary.
II
The esoteric was a dream to me; whereas, the secular seemed too obvious to be true; and systematic doubt would prove to possess parts of me. The daffodils wrought joys, on some level, seeming unimportant though; skies were so far away, so dark, depended on perception: I needed more than theoretical, more than empirical, whilst utilizing both as vehicles to accomplish a task: to undo destruction, to make less ado about mystery, to unfold some compartment enveloped in the exospheres. I know a gnat is swift, often returning for some reason, surprised—if swatted swiftly. Often, an element is a gnat, beyond reach, taking an interest in the phenomenon. One would praise the gnat, distressed by the gnat, unable to rest with the gnat. The ways of the gnat, become the praise of the privy, and to become aware makes the mouth dry for the fount. A soul, ironically, parched to fathom what has become an unending fascination.
III
A whale is a sign
of a haunting, trouble, careful opposition, even oppression. An elephant, a
pink one, sitting in the quarters, is an obvious problem—no one is addressing,
as such, it just looms, and grows, and becomes unbearable on the inside. Many
of us live this way—or lived this way—or subject to aggravation on multiple
plains. Watching a person kill herself is torture: the divisive attitude, the
consumption, the behavior, lies, and destitution: a soul becomes what it lashes
out against: hostile, irritable, snippy: erroneously clever, obvious to a
fault, boldly unattainable. Many are cleansing the mental tomb of pains and
tortures and sins. Uneasy enough, it lets go, we hope, at the grave,
remembering one quite dismissive about the fashion of their hands, the clay
they molded, the canvas they scribbled upon. A soul might change environments,
carrying earth, affected by internal torches—with measures to becoming what is
too resistant.
