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The RoBlog
Saturday, December 13, 2003
 
My Other Brain
I had originally thought of separating my rational brain from my creative brain, blogwise, assuming that readers of one wouldn't necessarily care about the other. I've decided to worry about that when there are people to worry about.

Here's something I wrote on October 8 of this year:

And I take this step because I understand that it will make me better. Will make THINGS better. I take it because I need to take it and my needs are mine and my needs are needy and I am mine. Me the am for what I was and the am for what I wish to be. The things, the people, and the me.

A fortnight passed before enough time had passed to pass. The thrill of the trill of my soul resonated with my body; two things so rarely able to acknowledge eachother that any consideration of the other required introductions, and handshakes, and cups of tea.

And then it was done. The doing was done, yet there seemed nothing left to do but the doing still. And the stillness, stolen from the night, was brought to an uneasy new day. Cautious, suscpicious. A day that knew that, even at this early point in its life, the day was not going as planned.

Disheveled I sat. Disheveled, I sat and shat and spat my own rhetoric to the uncaring masses of me. Dishartened I sat. Disheartened, I sat sad. Maddened by my madness. Saddened for my gladness that had left angrily decades ago in a bitter feud between love and longing and loneliness.

Odd as it was, odd as I was (as I was odd), as old as I was (and I was old, though it was older still) I was still proud, and stood proudly still.

And now I do the necessary. I perform the must.

A mist of musk, the mask of dusk, a mask of dust, a mast of trust, he arrives, solemn yet bitter.

He has known the way I have shown him, and is here to show it to me. Reflexive reflexivity clouds my eyes as his stare vies for my attention attrition.

His conviction of my condition withers my condition of conviction. His shadow stretches before him and arcs my direction has he maneuvers into position. The terminator's terminus crosses over me and stops, pointing it's long accusing finger of a shadow at me. Its darkness finding mine.

I am drawn down.

I sit. A prick. A stick. A twitch. A hitch. A shudder.

I sink into my stink. As the dark of his shadow and my soul dance about, filling the space of space. The space of this place. Leaving their dark trails over everything. Erasing the space of this place. The him. The here. The me.

The be.

roblog@thenetatwork.com
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