Sweat clings, the remainder of work, the effort spent all but invisible now, clouds of smoke and vapor. Salt and dust and scant reminders of insects that thirst for blood. Itches rise from ashes, to remain only vaguely scratched. A whole miasma surrounds each morsel of time, me blind to all but sparks and tailings.
It is a causal relationship, casually ignored, like the violent deaths of distant strangers, acknowledged in words and parsed feelings, quickly leaving the mind. The birthright abattoir, tallow and poultry sweepings, the slippery slope toward mechanization. The world slides away from us, our imaginations hewing ruin from bounty, creating notions of heaven upon heapings of hell. Threads and tools, this literature of wanton error, of forewarnings and victories and marginal surprise. The trouble with idealism and realism remain the same, even when the knowledge is thorough, the encyclopedia complete, ignorance and immediacy seem like wisdom when no one remembers the definition of wealth.
So we fight and gnash and toil, we name call and perform our rituals of sacrifice and ablution. We choose a side upon some false partition and howl with fury as we dismember all our tomorrows. Vivisection masquerades as election, and we throw our voices whole-heartedly into the hope that will be our graves. Each day a pyrrhic victory won in a war lost before we were born. Each night the slow preparation to cannibalize our souls.
It is a causal relationship, casually ignored, like the violent deaths of distant strangers, acknowledged in words and parsed feelings, quickly leaving the mind. The birthright abattoir, tallow and poultry sweepings, the slippery slope toward mechanization. The world slides away from us, our imaginations hewing ruin from bounty, creating notions of heaven upon heapings of hell. Threads and tools, this literature of wanton error, of forewarnings and victories and marginal surprise. The trouble with idealism and realism remain the same, even when the knowledge is thorough, the encyclopedia complete, ignorance and immediacy seem like wisdom when no one remembers the definition of wealth.
So we fight and gnash and toil, we name call and perform our rituals of sacrifice and ablution. We choose a side upon some false partition and howl with fury as we dismember all our tomorrows. Vivisection masquerades as election, and we throw our voices whole-heartedly into the hope that will be our graves. Each day a pyrrhic victory won in a war lost before we were born. Each night the slow preparation to cannibalize our souls.
di_xia:
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vertebra:
your advice is the best ever. seriously