The Simulacrum

Sighing in the car, windows up suffocating in the inefficiency of fumbling through the mental dictionary only to realize there’s no control in the random spouting of letters erupting all rambunctiously from fingers to keys to the no longer blank screen in front of the face. Heats emanating from somewhere, devilishly hot, Dante’s breathing down the neck waggling the one way ticket to the infinite lyrical purgatory, and it’s so tempting and disgusting at the same time. The inferno self is aching reverently to be taken for granted, understood for nothing less than the basest parts would allow.

Keys are smacking like dominos on the earth, producing sounds and words that eventually all ring out into utter black hole silence; where a brainwave hits the lead, mutating kryptonite thoughts into resolute deafness. Each stuttering of the imagination stalls short of fruition, poisoning the road behind with its inability to sprout the earth and reach towards heavenly skies. Instead we’re in the loamy death, eternal darkness that is the catacomb of creation; pleading with ourselves, this earthy prison of jelly cells and neurons working together to illicit the overwhelming pain. Wondering if it tastes any better in the cellular world than rapturous joy; probably not, yet these mental taste buds are on the permanent sour of inactivity---always yearning to break free of some ethereal barrier to voyage to the illusive elysian fields that lie yonder. Never knowing full well that the portrait of the artist lies in the viscera of each heart pumping blood, and the brain catching it all ravenously to fuel the painstaking trials of thought creation.

Drenched by this time, bogged down in the soiled excess emanating from the verbose physicality pent up in the metal box of the world. All for naught in the assiduous search for worth in the worthless world where real objects get the junk toss in the closet, and the insubstantialness of the world rules us all like matrix slaves. Breaking out is never enough, the outright rebellion of the tethered soul is necessary for any semblance of coalescing to occur. Rather we lay scattered to the winds, the fragments of ourselves forever alien simulacrums of who we once were. Too long in the winded vein, lungs spewing carbon dioxide, protesting the oxygen sweetness in reason; shame the diaphanous sheen of our lives doesn’t necessitate such simple rejuvenation.