A Cartoon of a Eulogy
For many years now there had been something that I always wanted to do, something that I wished I could be more than anything. But I lack any talent. And to my horror I have found that being visceral had no immediate value either. While now I sit here feeling lonely, feeling worthless, feeling electric and invigorated but with no conversation to set my palpitating will towards, I am deflated and curious to what all those lost souls found at the end of their tunnels. This I not the first time I have ever loved anyone and suppose perhaps not the last time. But the failings of my endeavour are as universal as the seed which sowed its gestation and decadence. We yearn for the golden age that lies beyond word and song, that connects our confidence that we struggle to keep and possess only in blindness, for in silent thought I have discovered I do not possess any real courage.
I carry myself along by the screams of my wild nights that fall on ears and souls that I cherish until they have grown tired and damp. There is no devil in me or an angel to whom silent meditation might communicate backwards my real worth. I am not truly sentient, I am a closed wasted child without any talent as I mentioned but fraught with desire which has no expression. I feel only the feeble tearful earthquakes and tremors that our toes all nourish, believing there is wisdom in this is foolish and vacuous.
I have nothing much to do. I wish I was an angel or a devil. I am merely divided and aware of my mediocrity for I long for electricity that does not cost me my innocence. Today I tried to pierce the blackened sky with my thoughts and bore my chest in character against a world of silence. No opera house waits for me, no messiah in beautifully hemmed garments is my soul’s resting place.
I am jealous that the lover who left me has warm voices to reach into and has that soft touch of humanity to stroke her restless face. I feel like a leper, I cannot blame nor feel blamed but I know that whether or not I run away I have no path to chase down, I have no love to be my soul’s compass whether or not she be flesh, whether she be only dream and beauty, I am not sufficiently heated to follow her to the edge of my darkness, I am beginning to long for the grey autumn days that hid my brain from want. I remember being in love with what was so preciously familiar. A brother of flesh that I was delighted to hear no longer wanted more. Indeed I sucked life out of her desolation. I am cowardice and its staining shadow. I am the lost memories that brain damage blesses. I am the dark cloud who’s heavy rain gives momentum to the earnest runner. I am the abyss from where regret is nurtured.
I think that our state of mind is really just a case of frequency. For every peak and trough we have a period of numbing pitch where in avoidance to it we spend countless seconds un-reactive and impotent and no longer curious to its cause.
I wrote some unloving lover a song once, she used to graze upon my field and smile in satisfaction in being so needed and being so free. And yet I like a child would stare at my beautiful blue walls and bury my screaming voice under a pillow. I was thinking I could employ someone to keep me company, perform mundane tasks for the sake of appearance so that I like a cripple could suckle at the vastness of her spirit.
I am so jealous of my heart’s muse, that bounds gallantly across the possibility and the reverence that a life which belongs to no-one else. For the rest of my tribe, scattered against an emotionless earth, and if I were to call to them what would I say, I know I would welcome them back with nothing to offer them for their pride-less struggle. What was all the fuss, do I really want to be investing in the future, such an empty and cold place. Do I want to stay with my kin trapped in old school laughter and exhaustion. I have no love at all. There is nothing I can say to you, say to myself or scream at myself that can describe this loss, the failed heart receive saliva from its own broken tongue. If only punctuality could be blamed then I would know exactly where to place the rod. I keep it beside me and now it has cooled and my hunger, which not till yesterday have I engaged, is not a shell of tears. My body is cold and electricity. I have poisoned myself not for the last time. I wait for my baptism of fire. The cruelty of silence is a cloud which I joust at in vain, for I joust against my fallacies, I begin to whither from exhaustion, and I know that voices in the distance are cooling my lovers guilty heart and giving the love that convinces you that friendship is the only love constant against the sun’s burn and winters amnesia. No , I have no voice to lay my tired head against to sleep.
