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Shalom & Salaam
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We walk as they walked. Amore, more, ore, re A questioning time Devastated. Surmise
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Ex Deus, Machina
I've begun to worry seriously that I may be verging on another larger collapse. I feel as though I'm tumbling down a mountain. I feel like I've had my epidermis flayed away. Everything is too bright, too sharp, and the overload renders it fundamentally ethereal. I thought it would hurt more than this. Instead there's only the gradual loss of focus. I wonder if dying feels something like this, the sense that the world is slipping even as the detail grows. Music helps a little, moderates the overload and provides a sort of cognitive narrative. There are images painted on the inside of my skull and I cannot pencil them to paper. Confused and apocalyptic inspiration, frustrating and agonizing because it refuses to be captured. Full blown pictures and pieces of story, sliding by like some vast stream. If I could just grab one and realize it. They are so beautiful that they make me feel alone. I cannot share these things with anyone right now, and by the time I can they will have faded like desert wildflowers.
One in particular occupies my attention. The image is a feminine face stretched over a rising pillar of hydraulic machinery, the sort that characterizes factories. It is layered and layered, a burgeoning pumping thicket of pistons, plates, and precision so dense that it is somehow organic. Striving, stretching its skin-thick face slowly out of shape. The eyes open onto the Mechanism below. Dragging itself out of a fluid white plane that is a gentle mockery of a woman's body. The only recognizable components are the soft shading of a ribcage's curve and a rising arm. Subtly displaced, fingers arched and resting as though draped over a lover's shoulder. I cannot capture this and I am frustrated, like I think a man might feel while he chases wind through a dandelion field. Maybe he imagines the wind is his lover. Why do men do that?
Does he feel like I do sometimes, when I miss the lady? The wind would be a poor saccharine for her touch. I love her and hope I do not lose her. Things will be okay.
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D-rev.
