'No reprieve' writ large across a mind mocking what little clarity residing there in the face of such overwhelming absurdity. Not for lack of introspection be it so, his a self-denying ego, perpetually turned in on itself fervent for a resolution of its defining paradox. Times come when it sees the smell of a whisper of something not altogether unreal, only to mourn this lonesome wisp of smoke’s fortunes amidst the cacophony of the Otherwise grand fire, mourning with it the inch farther towards Manhattan. Mind a bundle of raw nerves, a sword unsheathed, ever exposed to the elements; its gift and curse, for all the burdens it can truly sense what Is, sanity undulled, lies and links apparent. A borrowed gift be it though, fated by time to be weathered, rusted and blunted. Tired. Weary. What would wisdom want with withered, winter worn wanton will, where worthless worries warp whatever was -way when- worthy? The time to feel anything is pressing, to caress truths and lies alike, will and want, purity and sin, and fade home to all the greys in between. To touch futility in the very act of hope and smile in the grips of sorrow, only then will meaningful colours appear. But in the distance will they be, far beyond reach of any who see them, and hidden to those near to touch them. And he will crumble amidst the agony of yet another meaningless compromise. The trade made unbending –heart for mind, warmth for fire, hearing for the devil’s fiddle- what finer punishment for whimsical arrogance? Standing then on distant hills, surveying all that once was so very immediate, the realisation of what was done marked only by a single shudder, then silence. Patterns and meaning will find –he- in those surveys, but to him no avail, they are etchings in the dust. No songs to despair will there be, nor odes to joy, only a reminder; laugh till you weep or cry till you smile, either way there’s no reprieve.
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