Tuesday, January 29, 2013

Fight Unseen

I am a fighter. Yet the most devastating battles will never reach the surface of my skin or find their way to the world of the senses. If it occurs to me to breathe in my surroundings, that may be the sweetest victory I will know for that day. Others may be enlisted in the battle and, with only the best intentions, they will attempt to take command. Or will it just seem that way as their thoughts join the melee of already swarming brain-flies?

Each day I wonder if people recognize the comfort of knowing, at the very least, that it's just another day and they will live for another one? Don't get me wrong. Somewhere, where it counts, I know that. If I didn't, the fight would be over or postponed indefinitely. However, I can forget. Thoughts are just thoughts. They're only as real as I make them. They become more than real when I attempt to strangle and destroy every mental intruder that shows its face. These fights take their toll and no one even knows they happen.


How long has it been since I first realized that we are on a ship without a captain? Now that that ship is clearly going down, the response of the passengers is not really changing, only becoming amplified. Those without a clue are more lost than ever. Those who rely on their grasp are only gripping tighter. The perennial marginalized seekers of truth are already underwater. Their message is not 140 characters or less.

Since there is no point in attempting to escape this ship, I can only look forward to the logical conclusion of our current trajectory. Yet how can I do that when I cannot even be sure I will see that conclusion? Will I only know an infinitesimal angle of descent? There is only distraction and that bus left the station for me long ago.

How else am I to react to the image my senses are forming? What sound can I produce other than a scream? How many stories will sit untold in my daily dreams? The question mark must be banned. All punctuation must be affirmative and definitive. Potential energy must be measured. Weapons must be inventoried but I must clarify said weapons are metaphorical. I should have said tools. After all, this is the Garden of Gethsemane and I am not Jesus. I am just a friend waiting for the shit to hit the fan. Leave the crucifixion to someone else but don’t count me among the doubters. Any moment, I merely intend to give an uphill surge everything I’ve got. When I reach my apex, it is there I will set up camp. No matter where or when this occurs, it will be an act of insanity for another to join me and an even more absurd notion to create something new in this context. If you agree with this statement and are female, maybe we can get some coffee.

The voice of distraction is my only counsel. When I am going this way, it is distraction that tells me to look the other way. Dry ice or condensation, the fog must be maintained. Our eyes are now acclimated to the smallest of screens. Every conversation is an invitation to a conclusion already jumped to. Allegorical science fiction is now a self-defeating concept. Big Brother now conveniently fits right in your pocket. Innovation means bulletproof clothing for children. Being clever once brought me joy. Now it is beginning to disgust me.

We owe a massive debt of experience from which nothing has been learned. The damage sweepstakes have long since ended yet so many seem to still be competing. If there truly ever was a point, we started gaining distance from it the moment we were born. They say we spend nine months trying to get out and the rest of our lives trying to return. The quintessential limited comprehension of this concept ends up vulgar and clearly limited to the existence of males. A far more inclusive conclusion to this essay would be that the point is to return to Creation.