A Quarterly Report Concerning the Optimizing of Processes Involving the Adulation of the Devoted versus Defeatism in Ideas of Nullity

A Quarterly Report Concerning the Optimizing of Processes Involving the Adulation of the Devoted versus Defeatism in Ideas of Nullity and or the Act of Not Moving

To watch her slowly get dressed was like lying on the cold wet wood with my limbs being pulled in opposing directions. It was this reverse order of everything I wanted and it was just happening right before me. The Japanese understood torture in the realm of speed. They would keep that drop of water constant. That was the big part of it. And the little piece of clothing here by the bit of tied shoe there was something the they had not capitalized on: to use the most fundamental and devoted organ like a ration in front of a starving prisoner.

And when that door, crooked on its hinges, had to be violently pulled shut the tragedy of it washed over me in the most unforgiving way. My body started to fail me. The color in everything seemed to be pulled like someone had sucked it out leaving an empty transparent drinking glass of an existence allowing me to break it and impale myself on the shards. My motor skills as well start to give out and with my hands now numb the blood in my body nearly stops flowing when her light is not there to stir it. Buttoning my shirt became a task of sheer will to focus on the flat circle traveling through the hole and then to catch on the side the way you had agreed that it would work. But then some form of life starts to come back. I can feel it in my fingertips tingling just under the curves of the print. A slight shaking as if I was denied something needed like an engine running low on the slick brown lubricant. And the misanthropes talk and I deserve it or at least have earned the title of dreamer or affectionate fanatic, but what is it when I have grown out of the games and am fine in the world? What happens when the impulse is controlled because the pain is gone as if a wound has healed and all that is left is the scar of everyone’s memory. Is this really the certainty of an impartial confidant or the grumblings of a pretender, an imposter that cannot come close to anything that I am or have come to be except maybe in the streets of pretentiousness? And I tell her listen to the misanthropes, the Nay Sayers, the priests, and the beggars. But be careful whose words you let the transfer from simple letters pushed together into some kind fictitious truth or some forged document. I tell her, I beg her to think of the most cliché of all rainbows. I say to follow it all the way through the clouds, between the branches, and if there is a thicket of sharp hard thorns to cut through them like a diamond cutter through glass. And when we reach the end do not be disappointed that a little man with a red beard and a green hat doesn’t stand there with that pot of gold the lovely pop songs may talk of or what the skeptics insurance policy recommends. But rather know that the pay off was the colors and that it was every shade. Know when my eyes no longer see or when small electronics fill your ears it was the whole spectrum of it all.