Don't patronize me. I'll patronize you.
I've been meaning to express a few things. Avidly. But all things pass, what a blur! There's a love I've yet to express and yet a deep rooted hatred of which I will begin with. And to do so, there's a good deal of people out there. I have come to the most satisfying condition and the adumbration that I just might be the best person to hate. Other than being the self proclaimed herald of all things febrile in nature, I am a simple target. To begin with, I already claim animosity against your very existence. I smirk. And after all, I am alive. Little good will Pol Pot do you there. I am also "within reach," am soundly content with being so and strive towards every effort against the isolation of body. Of mind, however, I speak little. I can only grant you the leverage that my smirk is a most accurate representation of my mind given this moment. I just don't care.
And there's much I don't care about. I can't say I pay much heed to your natural dissatisfaction of loneliness, for to me it is a state of great, great glory. It is in fact the most peace inducing word that I can think of. I am alone not because there is no one around here, but I am alone because I dare not have one intrude upon my true moment of self-knowledge. That moment probably being life. Which is a funny thing because for the most part l find that I wend through a circle to meet its end. Of course, come reality and life is a labyrinth whose end is death. And back to that, I sound self-centric, but really, I am a dirty misanthropic vagrant traversing about and finding people to be little things here and there blocking corners or cold beaten stones by which I continually trip upon, making my journey ever more at odds with its end.
But I do not beat stones, stones beat me well until my pulse loses its echo. Now, for some stones, I can clearly pay my dearest sympathies for not recognizing their presence, whereas others are to be thrown into a dark basin of decorative perplexities. As it would seem, these basins are just black cities where ideas sound like the music of a drowning ugliness, delightful yet remarkably irritating. These ideas are your clothes, mottled with colors that cause swelling of my eyes, and they are your names, your bitter-sweet relationships, and even your gestures. "The flesh rages and riots, and the spirit follows it helpless and miserable."
There comes a time when things no longer matter. Silence is the very thing by which I gather the various broken fragments of my life. And by the very unique endearment of Silence I find in it a tone of divinity. Silence is a known divinity whose beauty has been firmly unacknowledged by all things. A very absurd violation.