Bask, drenched in Blood

A Bleeding Heart, surrounded by Weighty Thoughts, felt ambushed. It felt like it needed to be as authoritative as its planetary cohabitants. For, mark, these Thoughts were shaped as it, the Heart, was. They appeared to possess the same winding arteries that criss-crossed its own schema. Rational the Bleeding Heart was, and it could not ignore the way the Thoughts progressed about their ways, for, to ignore what was in front of you was to ignore truth, as far as you knew it. What could the Heart do but Bleed?

"Was I born to Bleed?" whimpered the Heart.

By all functional edicts, a heart is, indeed, meant to bleed. But, in staunch uprising, it had now become rather mistrustful of the PuppetMaster, Who implied, by means too subtle not to pay heed to, that it, the Heart, was ordained to Bleed. The PuppetMaster told the Heart it was supposed to ignore the smooth, facile way in which the Thoughts fulfilled their tasks and whims. The Thoughts, the Heart was admonished, would always be, for the Heart, an edifice of discontent; that which it, the Heart, could never adhere to. That was the way it was, spake the PuppetMaster.

The Heart made up its mind. It would not be thus subjugated. It would be a Heart freed from the evolutionary imperative of Bleeding. It would be renegade, and a happier Heart it would be for it. Its blood would no longer be called upon as payment for its existence. It would serve its captors in other ways - through a mindful love and admiration. It would be easy to love them, after all. They would be worshiped for their ascendancy in a set of parameters it valued in a bodily organ; and in idolising its captors, it would set its own ideals upon a hallowed pedestal. And, with this promise, the Heart began to pump its blood for itself once more. And it had a Hearty laugh with every pulse.

These people have always known their agendas. They are so "in the know" and so devoid of self-ignorance that they can manipulate. Me - on the other hand - not so much. For instance, I am just not given to manipulation or any form of forgery, because I dread the effect a lie would have on my already tattered view of reality; dread lest I make it harder for myself than it already is to successfully argue in favour of why 2 and 2 should make 4 - which, it seems, is too sinful a premise to expect to be true...

But Oh how cool it'd be if I found voice when the court was in session.

Death row

You know what can kill a person without fail? Nope. I'm not talking about poison, or some other 'foolproof' method of dying.

A person truly is doomed to death when his mind is stifled.

With the rate of connections his brain is able to make diminishing towards zero;

With the electricity that should ideally be rushing freely through his neurons grinding to a staggered halt;

With each thought his brain is able to muster being thwarted, harassed and killed because it represents something in the living world which unnerves and frightens him;

When the exciting venture into the world of imagination/mental creativity only holds the inevitable caveat of the unleashing of a world of negativity better left untouched;

When all your thoughts you'd thought were your very own brainchild seem exposed as nasty seeds planted in your head by those who were able to advertise their agenda onto your impressionable, 'naive' mind;

When the only possible aftermath of any foray into conscious thought is the realisation of how thoroughly your brain has been drained, seeped of any chance at originality;

When you feel like all your precepts, ideas, tools for thinking are all a crumbled pile of obsolete rubble because you just never really are able to find that reality agrees with what you think of it;

When the slightest period of thought-flow that has successfully gone on uncontested is beset finally by the fear of having pushed your luck;

When you realise that the reason you can't get your brain to make the wasteful effort of thinking clearly is due to the strength of your belief that faced with an opportunity/scenario for the thought to have productive value, your power will desert you;

When you're certain that if someone told you that your life depended on you telling them your name, the one thing you could bet your bottom ruppee on not being able to recall is the word Mihir;

When you begin to feel that no amount of cognizable thought can be worth anything when reality is just lurking around the corner, licking its chops, waiting for you to make that turn so that it can kill that sorry little meagre confidence you dared to accumulate from thinking you'd understood something for real;

When the only thing that has made possible a flow of thought unobstructed for long enough as to enable a rant even as unimpressive as this is that the fact that everyone is asleep has empowered you to believe that no other mind can exert its influence on yours right now...

.....phew....

That person might as well be dead, for all the surviving he'd be capable of if a band of wayfaring robbers accosted him on his way to work, requiring of him to solve a simple arithmetic problem in exchange for an uncut throat.

If that isn't the definition of "death row", the phrase can only mean a situation in which Dumbledore and Harry merrily use oars to traverse the black inferus-filled lake in Voldemort's cave while singing 'Du Hast' on top of their voices.

Soiled by something indulgent

The day starts with an early call.

You trust the innocent promise that this early awakening advertises to your mind. You go on to spend the morning ambushed by your own weakness for a sheltered outing, and you hence lay yourself bare. Don't forget, not denuding yourself was not ever an option when on an outing; the outing itself is the act of stripping yourself to the corrosive sway of elements.

The unrequited offer for a seat would go on to nab your peace of mind later, and force you hostage to the need to compartmentalize. Although well compartmentalised at the time of first reckoning, it may have gone on to spread its shadow over your skeletal membranes nevertheless, over the course of the afternoon.

Parental exuberance too may have curdled the mixture a tad, it is smelt.

The other contaminant possible as a suspect is the parting wave. Earlier instances of this conciliatory wave have produced bouts of atmospheric pressure similar to the one being felt now.

Then some self-identifying reading leads to the promise which the day proffered your way in the morning. The sight of your mould in the writing relieves and elevates your mental fortitude.

The Puppetmaster spake..

"What did he say?" Didn't you hear him? He spoke in words. You have ears. You know sound when you hear it. You have a brain which can decode sounds for you. You can understand how things work. You can correllate a sentence with the objects it's talking about. And that's why you can never say that you didn't understand what he said.

You know you heard him with your ears.

"What just happened?" Didn't you see? Things moved in front of your field of vision. They didn't happen when you had misplaced your glasses or anything like that. Wait a minute, you don't even need glasses. You have perfect vision. (You only ever wore glasses when you wanted to pretend like you were some sort of intellectual. You wanted glasses to make yourself look as if you had a life.) You can see things happen in front of you. That's why you've been given eyes. To see. And the stuff whose light entered your eye had a direct connection to your brain. Your brain can decode optical information into mental pictures. You can use these mental pictures to perceive the stuff your eye saw. And that's why you don't ever need to complain that you didn't know what just happened.

You know you saw it with your eyes.

You have seen life for so long that by now, you know how things behave. This is great for you. Because you know how things work and function, you can interact with them and make them do things for your benefit. Superman knew the air. He knew his body. He knew that a cape flying in his wake makes for a powerful image of purposeful flight. So he used it all to make himself fly, and earn millions of dollars for selling himself as a potent image of an alpha male. Not that you can fly. But you can see. And that's all you ever need to do. And it's all you can do. That doesn't have to sound like an escapist thing. It's only as escapist as a horse-rider saying that it's upto his horse to do the galloping. Provided he has fed it. Provided he has made sure that the bran in its bowl was not mixed with anything the horse was allergic to. Provided he has made sure she gets enough exercise and sleep. The rest happens as part of a mechanism. You can't say no to the mechanism. It's like air to your lungs. Breathe it in. You're sure to come back for more.

Say

Why are there so few admissions made? Why is so much left unsaid? Do you realise how brutal it is to leave things unsaid? When you are actually making an effort to erase the secrecy of silence and coming out with fact-stating, the avid listener is banking on you to reveal to him what he doesn't know. The more avid he is, the more space in his head he will have cleared to accommodate the meaning that he expects your words to convey to him. In this situation, if you leave things unsaid, imagine the evil that has taken place. Not only has the listener lost the knowledge he had earlier, by having emptied his mind to accommodate your wisdom, but he is now left forsaken by your withholding of the wisdom he expected you to supply him with.

And oh what a monstrous mountain of doubt is erected by the unsaid. So much speculation to risk before you can hope to have landed on truth! Blindly groping for something you don't even know exists for your flailing hand to come across by chance!

OOOOH but when I myself make so many errors, it's so painful to expect hope for the existence of something true. I was my only hope. But I forsaked me.

Please say everything. Saltus in demonstrando is one of the greatest boons that I can think of, but as a communication tool, it sucks *#%%) $#@^ (*(!.

Come on Kids!

Why be happy?

Every day is, thankfully a new day. But to say that seems to be buying disastrously into conventional phrases intended to promote positivity. Disastrous because every positive notion you dare to have can be a contract accepted with the devil conglomerates that have set up the positive node of the universe in an attempt to mask the truth of negativity.

Believing something positive has always scared me. Now, when I attempt to wonder why that is so, I figure it's probably because I seem to have to mistrust the prevalance of any desirable situation. Maybe the persistently consistent phenomenon of 'good things coming to an end' (to use a normally used phrase) has created a conditioning within the brain that a good thing eventually, invariably, leads to the end of it. And the end of such good situations, in my case, mostly tend to mean that I'm left in a state of utter dissonance, for when my 'good situation' -- not having been an ambitious one to begin with -- dies, it leaves in its wake sheer desolation, much like when a cob of maize is snatched away from a starving Ethiopian toddler (As it stands, he can only ever toddle at best. Now, on top of that, he has been robbed of the single object upon which he had relied to aid him in sustaining the delusion that he did not actually live amid vultures waiting to graze upon his abandoned spleen at the slightest drop in his pulse-rate.) A sordid existence, I would ask you, if I were looking for sympathy.

Another cause for being scared of believing something positive, or enjoying a pleasant time of anything, is that the time spent wallowing in a pool of happiness and contentment could mean that you are ill-advisedly eating up your chances at redemption. Or, to stretch the point into a stronger depiction of truth, to surfeit in a period of extended mental analgesia must mean that you have dipped your beak into some elixir for which payment would be extracted. And all that you, having no skills nor ability to create something of value with which to pay your creditor, can do to balance the books, is to pay through your own enslavement or divesting yourself of a chunk of your soul (whatever a soul may tangibly refer to, in metaphoric reference it refers to that which you cannot do without; the lack of which leads to feelings that make you wish you'd been bald so as to escape having to tear your hair out by the handful).