Its a brave new chapter to life where the powers of imagination are unignorable and nearly irrepressible. The mind is no longer a stagnant filter but a burning, radiating, lobe cleaving superfluid of all time and manifestations. It’s the age of the robot velociraptor, the map of the hidden colors, the bread of perception.
Theres an itchy feeling in the pines, and it’s the same thing in every dark and wooded corridor clad with snapshots of a time the world has always just forgotten. Here are the fairies and the muses and the witches and the angels and every gifted sparkling soul you have turned away. Here she comes with her little whimper and there your eyes follow her, bore into her back until the bleeding joyous reality has melted away into a compasionless nothing you have formed for yourself. Spring up little parks and woolen trees and praying little roads with innocent creeks, brooks really. Stand in the middle of them and beg the rest of the world for its attention. There are no sweet ways to put it. There are no melodies to describe the vain animal you have become. Dance in front of the mirror and be alone with your empty thoughts.
The fleetest of childhood pauses that still ravage your peace of mind. A never ending death, mistakes that have been branded into the skin of reality, flaming scars of the past still twisting and beating and manipulating. Are there no cool rivers of transcendence that’s can be crossed to put out the stinging thoughts? Does the unknown forge prime terrors of eternity? Is the child unforgivable? There is simply no comprehension of absolution. The hip fired remarks of an instant awkward moment, the wilting remembrance of split decisions of pleasure, piling consequences, the mind twitching maim of a solitary note, the little red scrawlings, raining down on the failed aspirations, the broken redemptions, like Gabriel flying down to meet the demons, the marks the searing slices of the sword is his righteous hand. Even in the pang of retreat, between gasping breaths of refuse hear the clang clang clanging of that mighty sword as it comes down the hall. No lock can keep it out, no corner can escape its reach. Oh what a beautiful and enviable angel, a supremely just power that fails to find any excuse for mercy now. What could you give the hero of the good as he dispenses the horrid? You reach into your pockets but of course you feel nothing.