Where Happiness Writhes Poetic
And turns beauty the perverted tone of confusing talent.
Voice over recommended in a peaceful environment.
“The idea that you can control your own health with the right attitude has been promoted in New Age books, in popular magazines, and in talk shows, and the vast majority of people believe it. But it’s a pernicious untruth. Not only does the idea have no scientific basis, it shifts blame for the disease onto the victims and away from biochemical mechanisms that are still, for the most part, maddeningly beyond their control.”
— Susan Pinker, The Village Effect.
Guided through the mad halls of natural inclination, one glance ought to be enough. How much would you like to bet on one more hallway made of irony too unbearable to address?
There exists beauty clear enough to carve inflexible harm. There is ugliness capable of negating all room for apprehensive pride, where failure to nurture anything in between has it easy. You do not believe me. Nothing as laughable as concentrated effort is required to acquire productive understanding. A few more blinks worth of out-of-breath frustration is all we need to forget this poetic …1 moment. Disk Utility > Format.
Hello nowhere. Set me apart from the agonizing certainty found exclusively in the confusion of perpetual ignorance. Skip the update and replace our polluted air with devastating malware. Here is where hope turns insufficient beyond comically thin patience for shaky comprehension. Only a few more blinks remain.
There is a form of misguided stupidity densely clouded by stale certainty disheartening enough to turn stagnant air into vibrant improvement. Pay close attention to this demonstration. Fatigue informs the compass where our instincts gather ‘round. Stars do not align in any meaningful way related to our concerns. We may share the dusty remnants of sparkling composition, but the spectacular wit of conscious suffering remains ours alone.
[Is] being alive is the worst thing a person can become? [Not that there are options.] Best to back off and let all else have it. [Not certain what this means yet.] I want to be where I have never been, behind an invisible curtain between pretty songs. It is not for lack of trying that you do not understand.
Here I am. Here I am.
Sharing shaky thoughts landing precisely nowhere clearly enough to define the lines of a digitally curated generation. [Unhinged psychobabble on the verge of something else.] Do not look away.
“The desires of the heart are as crooked as corkscrews,
Not to be born is the best for man;
The second-best is a formal order,
The dance's pattern; dance while you can.
Dance, dance for the figure is easy,
The tune is catching and will not stop;
Dance till the stars come down from the rafters;
Dance, dance, dance till you drop.”
– W H Auden
Account for every angle. Develop a buffer clever enough to prevent the worst imagination and maybe something like the best of your intentions stand a claustrophobic chance in heaven’s unlikely reflection of hell beyond description. Should stop drinkniong … while writing drunk, given the mhystakes. Hell, should probably stop drinking, given what we know. druink now. Good. Second thought, no!
This is a lie, here to fool you.
GOddammit she is pretty. Why keep cool when every choice turns stupid? Are you similarly torn through realizing Atticism’s concise and elegant expression failing compatibility with spontaneity? Does she wet her patient lips between intimate conversation? Hell, pour over and hold my breath! Start drinking again — never have. The level of confusion on this planet built on lies is second to none. Mmm. … Better drink some water before this racing heart catches something clever.
Vertical.
H
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.Ob
liq
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Deeper.
Wider. C o m b i
n ed.
Probe and extend novelty. Map fundamental charts informed by equations as dizzying as life. Feel the weight of peaceful isolation’s unique capacity to turn nights only terrible. Save some for the languages beyond our tongues’ twisted games.
Met a woman who had recently left a decade-long abusive relationship. She was not allowed to listen to music that she preferred. She loved Pink Floyd, her partner did not. Played The Delicate Sound of Thunder for her in a gold-standard, state-of-the-art, concert recording with a gentle abstract film between songs.
Then gave her space to cry.
What for? Inspiration …2 through the clarity of impossible beauty? Convinced now, this is the behavior that forms a contorted, creatively cruel monster insatiably basking others in what they do not — possibly cannot ever — have. Life dies paradoxically because of change. Change appears to change itself, as if grasping hope’s desperate soreness through the corrosive rhythm of unbreakable laws. Fighters strive to master fatigue as well as strength where spiteful understanding paves the satirical pain of unpredictable paths. Noble power thrives invisibly, more reliably than the sordid sarcasm of promised miracles, on its own.
Accepting mortality requires dying in unknowable ways. A fool beyond comprehensible humor, engaging with the world, is all that remains … for a few blinks longer.
It's immeasurably easier to live in a world that's all surfaces, that means nothing and demands nothing.
— Dean Koontz, Odd Interlude #1
Riveting detail exclusive to the voice over.
Riveting detail exclusive to the voice over.