decomposition

Whatever makes you happy, right? As long as it doesn't hurt anyone, just pursue whatever makes you happy, deep down. That's what we're told, and it feels both like a mainstream thought and a much-needed piece of underheard advice all at once. It's said to make the most sense in the context of fiction: "Don't pick on X for liking My Little Pony, for liking Sonic the Hedgehog, for liking Dark Souls, for liking Marvel movies, for liking action flicks, for liking Twilight, for liking D&D, for liking Kirby, for liking YA fic, for liking YouTube cat videos, for liking memes, for liking BABYMETAL, for liking fanfiction, for liking slice-of-life anime, for liking Steven Universe, for liking One Direction, for liking Nile, for liking Tomb Raider, for liking Lego Star Wars, for liking Warrior Cats, for liking Edgar Allen Poe, for liking Game of Thrones, for liking Fallout, for liking Homestuck, for liking harlequin novels, for liking Sum 31, for liking Lady Gaga, for liking Pokemon, for liking house music, for liking theater, for liking daytime television, for liking Adam Sandler, for liking rock n' roll, for liking Michael Bay, for liking Full House, for liking Assassin's Creed, for liking post-modernism, for liking My Chemical Romance, for liking webcomics, blogs, Netflix, Hulu, Amazon Video, Crunchyroll, Google Wave, Fortnite, OH GOD THE RAPTURE IS BURNING..."

It's a point to rally behind, yeah? A matter of letting people be who they are, "leave us alone!"

"Some people like sports, some people like books! Let us be!"
"They're not 'guilty pleasures,' they're tastes."
"There's little difference between liking a popular thing and an unpopular thing, it's arbitrary."

I may still believe all of this.

Unfortunately, an image has attached itself to my mind which seems to want to present itself as a response to these beliefs:

When people see me reading a James Joyce book, I feel like a mummified fossil decomposing in the sun. Each page is another scrap of linen fluttering under the eyes of an observer, the words those personalized funerary spells covering the cadaver, making him an Osiris just like me. Preserver of a corpse, that's how I look compared to the man six feet away playing Soul Calibur II.

No one mocks me but I, and only in the eye.

There is no fandom for Ulysses's universe, no righteous defender of this ancestor of our thoughts. There are only strange looks, for I treat Finnegans Wake as if it merits a dozen rereads in a binge marathon just like a good rock album on an emotional night.

I've led myself out of touch, believing it to be for spiritual purposes, only to find years later I'm eleven thousand miles away from the frame of reference for anyone I care about. A sort of cul-de-sac, a dead-end street of the soul.

Yes, I focused on texts that made me happy. But what of it? Where now?

entropy as catalyst for the transubstantiation of joy into absence

But that's not accurate, is it? I have those who are spiritually quite close to me. It's the physical distance, isn't it, which clouds recognition and breeds amnesia. That horrible phantom which has extended its shadow over our souls ever since we took our first steps into the ocean of abstracted thought: Physical distance. That banshee that outlasts every reckoning, the first and last obstacle for the living, more resilient than death and broader than time: Physical distance.

Song of Shade

EAT sings to me in my solitude as I recover from a drug habit. Fear is not her name but a misplaced epithet, O it and her but never she, otherwise known as our dear sweet mother Earth, daughter of our creations in her metaphysic, only audience for our great masturbatory Human race.

What is a Fearblog but an ode to an essence we cannot speak? Smoldering.
I miss talks and bardic jocks; I miss news and friendly reviews.

The Dying Man latched onto my habits long ago and forbid me from creation. That light is now absent which once could have powered a city named Dekan, a conspiracy called underscore, a planet dubbed Mum, a void of space named the Sampo, a place called the Totality. Replaced it did a darkness deep which I used to guide my hand in sculpting a series of cenotaphs of sizes varied.

What is a deadblog but a tomb for something not there? Smothering.
I miss dreams and productive schemes; I miss wings and eyeless things.

The Cold Boy will, ah he will, I know he well, visit our patch of grass. He's coming around the bend we call our Aire, sailing on a dinghy asearch for a friend he'll deem an heir, yes an endless business, yes that's all there is, yes. He'll play any game you want him to, he'll cover you in blankets and usher you into your hole, the angel to your devil, the contrast to your color, he'll play any game you want him to, and you'll wake up in a place called Sleepville.

What is a song but an arrangement of intervals webbing senses into someone else's patterns?
A thoughtless cry for help.

incomposition

I've been avoiding blogs, but I don't need to anymore; they're not how Fear has been getting into my life. I've got to close some fuckin' windows.