Wrath

I'm not sure what this is... A cry for help, a beating on the chest, or just some given reason to believe I'm going crazy. Life has a peculiar way of winking its eye at you like you're some circus act, supposedly meant to make people happy, but at the cost of making you into an empty, hollow shell of a person. Read with caution, I didn't stop until I reached a thousand words, and I didn't edit beforehand. I have no other way to categorize this besides calling it what it is...prose.

The cascaded force, truculent in fluency, rebounded and caused me hyperfixation. I was there, washing away my sins like the bible commanded me, exuberant with new life, telling of any living bodies willing to pass me by to seek the help they need to manage. I was the fly, with little to no meaning in the root of the world, cruising into soft completion; there was a dark crimson light flashing from the fly’s eyes and into the cream-colored pallor of my skin. And how dare there be such an obsessive cascaded force, willing to try and put a stop to my intentions, thrilling the possibility of me actively coming to a halt. What cost would that do me, but the worst? The clacking sound of my brain caressing the varicose veins in my hands, plowing the fields that they are so apt to harvest; and the blue tools are slicing away at the God-woven weeds, polluting my garden of passion. My hands flee away from me, far away from my body’s control. I fear my hands are more powerful than I can handle. The rest of my body is here—in the flesh?—feeling the soundwaves of chords swooning over my naive persona. And suddenly, I’m back in the dark-bricked building down the road from the downtown nucleus. There is a woman there, waving her hand to me, hoping I notice her streaky, anxiously-applied polish. There were stripped pieces hanging loosely against her cuticle that she tried to pluck, but dangerously chose to just drink her dirty martini and wash away her sins. I pull her in close to me, feeling the warmth of the alcohol dabble its hand in her drab idiosyncratic tendencies. Her eyes are like pieces of a washcloth, covered in sudsy backwash, chilling to the bone in chemicals and abhorrent joviality… The mind I thought I once had, now just a fever-dreamed memory away, glides away from the dark-bricked building. It’s quiet when he leaves his house, goes down the street, and accompanies himself without me. Only my hands, that of which are holding that woman drinking her drink, he uses to extrapolate the truth. He wants to dig for the truth, desperate for an answer that he does not want to hear. The fields grow longer and farther, absorbing the sun as it melts into the purple darkness. The weeds grow long fingers and hold hands with each other, terrified of losing one another. A dog-eat-dog world clutching at the very well-being of a person when they feel the most happy about something. And the terrifying truth only thrusts itself onto me, like I hold that woman, hoping to keep that warmth around me for a little while longer. My hands are getting older, but still so full of youth—the veins create a prevalence against the skin of my body’s liking. I watch the balls of my knuckles roll around the finger, feeling the pressure of every key as its soft-colored dwindling leaves my thoughts for moments at a time. It takes too much time to realize the importance of the craft, the charisma that witnesses the creation of the craft, and the groovy sliminess of what exactly I am doing with this…here and now. Why here, why now, why this? Why not figure-skating, or baking, or painting, or teaching? I want this all to make sense, want God to show his face and scowl at me for not truly harnessing this sooner—I can’t get the right hang of it. All there is is a hormonal ecstasy that overtakes the adolescence of fictitious departure, and the molding together of my hands and mind. Two prominent figures that seldomly intertwine with each other's affairs, but commonly create substances good enough to eat and refreshing fluids swell enough to bathe in. I eat too fast with these kinds of uncommon, unprecedented periods of solace to which I absorb and spit out like a bulimic. I want to sleep away the rising pain in my belly, I want to cradle my words like a newborn, burping out the bad, and petting the good. I pick up those words created by me, read the large purple, red, and white letters on each of the covers and wonder how it all happened…and why so fast…? I wish John was here to help me out. I wish Stephen was here, and Norman, and Jerome, and Kurt, and Dean, and Papa, and Ralph, and Willy, and Ed, and Jim, and George, and Ray, and Jack, and Fyodor, and Scotty. I wish they were there, destined to press the luck, dubbing me a knight of the round table of literate prophets. They’re all gone, except one. Who knows how long Steve-O has got? I want an answer to add to my correctly-portioned plate. All I have are a few dozen side dishes that spit out the questions, but I want the solution to all of them. I want to vomit out the impure and relish in the pure: I want to grapple with the fruitfully unknown and practice into the new era of evolution. Yet, all I have are my hands to guide me. I’ve done an unerring abhorrence with my hands in the past; and I do not forget the past as easily as the future will try to persuade me to. My hands tangle against the silvery-plated panels like a string of Christmas lights, shaking as they hover over the batter’s box of what can truly create a modern-day prophet. A gaudy passion that only a writer can possess; and it’s only up to him to master and utilize the cat’s cradle of an abomination. Am I the overlord willing to take over the modern-day literature movement, or am I just a mindless spirit flooded with all of the geniuses and their immoral minds holding me hostage? I have twenty-two words left and I still haven’t conducted myself an answer. I want to feel the warmth without so much suffering involved.