Wednesday, January 25, 2012

The Alex Show - Episode 33

Somewhere along these lines I have lost sight of the big picture - assuming my body still lies within a canvas these days. I would certainly not be able to tell. Though my conscious moments tend to rupture with a most mystique exuberance, I find the pallet to be faded, somewhat outdated, and sadly berated. Where did I lose sight? Then again, was it even my own sight that created the frame? I know the answers to these questions. Whether I wrote them or not, I am forced to forget until the idea of remembrance is long forgotten. Ten. Ten Commandments. Ten demands. Ten guidelines.

ASIDE: Even though the lines have been drawn, surely I can be my own guide.

I have longed to escape these boundaries. I have not been the one to make them, yet I have restored their purpose. To move off topic from this extended metaphor would only further prove my point, so I must awaken from this coma and from this fabricated comatose. How can a blind man sleep for so long when there is hardly a difference between dream and reality? If the canvas is painted black, it need not matter if the man is asleep or if he is blind. Regardless of which state I am presently in, I must urge myself to awaken. It is the only option I have, for if I am asleep, my will can prevail, and if I am blind, then it is no question as to why I lost my direction.

Revelation: A blind man can easily differentiate between dream and reality, for in dreams, he regains his sight.

- afm


WritersChoices said...

Lateral vision crossed the perpendicular and the intersection of sight and mind created crosshairs that sang immediacy and rancor. The prophecy foretold the void between twilight and hindsight; lying awake and dreaming of sleep. (Follow the compass arrow, it only points North). Segmented and true, like the words still coating the inner ear, blind or deaf, but still growing. The great ape rattles the cage while singing in solitude; shaking his fist at the sky as it falls down like blue water draining from the glass leaving only the lack of stars in its wake. (Cremation seemed a viable alternative to creation in the name of purity).

The old man looked up from his cold tea, his reflection dissolving like his sugar free sugar freeing him from his past. Either he dropped the cup or the cup dropped him; both shattered neatly into the dustbin. The garbage man was on holiday and so he went unswept, mixing his dust with his own. We all return to powder, soft and discrete. No wind blew that day. Just the rain.


Hayley said...
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