Yet Still, I Am

Wow!!! And then it was just another episode in confusion and deception. Or it could be life changing and intuitive. Or it could be the next spiral down the winding vortex of defeat.

Net-net, nada. Only the most minimal experience, barely risky, defeated by truth yet again. If only the truth were friendly and the lies ambivalent.

Coral sympathies surround rose passion. True intuitive introspection induces indirect idiosyncratic ideology. Genuinious incantication consecrating coincidentalous manifestocracies. Apros pos, no?

So here I am still searching this hostile island in hopes of having an experience. Sometimes I wonder if I am empty, condemned to forever go through the daily acts of social and economic maintenance yet somehow never quite experiencing the climactic moments which make the effort exquisite.

Is it all just so logical and homogenous that makes everything so tedious, or is there some fire or passion as yet unignited, still dormant, like a maiden awaiting heather and roses?

Still I struggle on, unpained, unburdened, fearless, and soft.

Joy, like tears, like terror, like hate, like dreams, like the past, like youth.

And it's just so pathetic to be introspectively defeatist in the shadow of wealth and unbounded opportunity.

Yet.

Is it a chemical imbalance? Is it pure reason? Is it the withering body? Is it seasonal? Is it inevitable? Is it weakness? Is it sorrow? Is it unrequited creativity? Is it solitude? Is it intolerance? Is it alcohol? Is it the residue of pharmaceutical indiscretions? Is it the threat of poverty? Is it the future, the past, or the now and here? Is it solar radiation? Is it environmental or just mental?

In so many ways I am exactly the same insecure soul of old. I have learned only the ways of the world but inside my dark perspective there remains a total lack of self awareness and so in these foggy times I am unprepared to assimilate the cold shroud and pierce the intense uncertainty.

Yet again.

Joy is just a thought away, just an image of unquestioned perfection, just a dance, a harmonization, a photograph, the spectrum of color, the visual sensation of architectural perfection arching through the overcast, the word, the perception, the awareness of new truth, the mechanical click of logical progressions, the total freedom of meditative black vision, the silence, the gratitude of a stranger, the opening of a new creation, the completion of a plan, the clarity of pure knowledge, the interpersonal telepathy visible in the steady lock of unchallenging eyes, the simplicity of humor, the memories, and hope.

Yet still.

I am.

Again I sit unchained in my wall-less prison of self. Twin expectations, each with opposing twin desires, entangled.

I am from the future looking back helplessly upon this barbarian time, unwilling or unable to influence their inevitable course of digression. They devour themselves and everything around them in a thrashing orgy of impulse and consumption. Who would they be and who would they wish to be? How can my future be derived from this incendiary convergence of souls and seekers. Wave after wave of personalities play intrinsic games of survival and temptation, seeking their goals oddly through unaffiliated compact. It remains simple yet incomprehensible except after initiation. Pawns play no part but to accentuate the queens, knights joust unreasonably, kings watch and ponder their fate. Fortunately, the rules are inconclusive and the risk undetected. Yet still they troll as seekers, too unpleasantly distracted to feel. Yet still, they yap joyously as if somehow they were happy.

I am from the past, undetected by youth. I peer into their fallow outlook and reflect insufferably. Was I so unmolested? Was I so self assured, or am I landed amidst some anomalous party of extra bountiful corsairs? They appear so unconcerned about sexuality as they pheromone each other so casually. In my time, not so long ago, we were alone in discos, not boisterously interoperating through formulaic destinations. Yet still, they glee in deprecation, like, whatever.

I am present now, among peers on the fringe of my formulaic generation, trancing along mindful of every stuttering footstep. Opening choice selections through random incantations, finally easing blithely toward yes. Unbeknownst of truth, naive of temperance, striding ever onwardly, tall despite its arrogance, victimized again with congestive impertinence, awkwardly patient and frozen while estuarine transitions interpose opportunity over tranquil ineptitude.

Yet still, I am.

2001 - St. Louis