Pudgy uninvited fingers had torn away the cloth covering above her two fleshy mounds revealing their prominence’s to the unmitigated harshness of uninvited gazing. The sight of the proclivity of eyes all about her immediately widening with a wolf-like pleasure birthing the tightening of her twin wine dark circles to form into a pair of hardened points. Small baby finger-size like things whose continued protest extends tirelessly forward demanding a further form of touch. The pudgy grasp that had initially revealed them taking up this challenge by gripping them even hard and more firmly between thumb and forefinger to squeeze down even mercilessly harder until their owner began to writhe about to her own futile melody of gasps and sharp cries.
What purpose, if any, was behind such actions beyond some rude animistic form of carnal satisfaction? A reason that after the fact was only decipherable within the shiny gleam of the eyes of its perpetrator? A desire to produce unfolding pain in the innocent? That old all too often familiar fetish based relationship along with its key element of the use of the female anatomy to inspire action? An attempt to convince the mind of the entity within that simple accumulation of flesh that business is meant? Dwarfs come in three’s! The owners of those pudgy little fingers, all being but three feet tall and needing a small step ladder to reach these two rosy tips in order to make them sore. The repetitive addition of extra pairs of additional tiny little hands providing efficient assistance. That final goal of obtaining otherwise hidden information verified through painful exhaustion? Satisfaction eventually arriving in the form of complete information used to be processed and then filed for the sake of an overwhelming bureaucratic security state. Or once again, just for inflicting pain for pain’s sake!
Some say that in the minds of those behind the scenes, the Renaissance has never ended. The non-stop guile of Borgia Popes as visually emboldened by times long past upon Caravaggio canvases. A ready army of perpetual misfits being more reliable than any of those that are healthy in mind, body and spirit! The deformities of the damned always fitting together for nefariously like puzzle pieces. Always read to awaken one morning in a sense that had for some time, despite warnings, provided an ultimate conclusion of one’s unexpected former existence coming to an end for one as the train pulls up into the quay and into the station. One’s spirit all too soon abandoned to the frailty of errant mortality. Abstinence of one’s responsibility in the first place, rewarded by permanent damage to one’s self. A blind dark corridor from which there is no return. One’;’s ever fleeting goals behind life flushed away after never being sufficiently met.
When one ponder the elusive definition of personality they are surprised that the appreciation of one’s own character remains transfixed by a lingering presence of an internal sense of repression covering up a dark side. A side of inherent of foul nature that could be traced back to events endured in a twelfth year of rising hormonal passions. Or perhaps a forgotten experience from a much earlier age? A simple answer lurking amorphously hidden in a mental fog back then that if discovered would seem so obvious in hindsight leaving all further inquiry useless? Yet, growing older, still it becomes so obvious that this undefined place remaining perpetually dark resists all light! A burden that one has felt at different times, or upon different occasions, that has led to a state of inexplicable longstanding depression. And, interfering with the ongoing tedium of regular life. Eventually adopting one to a perpetually cynical outlook in terms of the disrepair of the subsequent general perspective of daily life.
One might recall that initial point in sentient infancy when that dream of carefree ‘flight’ off-planet came suddenly to a halt. Dreams unexpectedly crashing downwards into a free fall spiraling endlessly over swirling treads of a cast iron equivalent. Until, at last coming to rest upon the bedroom floor entangled in bed covers? Jarred awake! Something in the way of the discovery of a wandering child character of the category of a Little Nemo whose long lost popularity being at its height in the beginning of the 19th century mirrored such events. A prosaic sense of storybook innocence becoming all to fleeting in terms of it’s own temporal existence. Dimply alive though paging through incomplete random collection of family photos from that time when no evidence remains visually manifesting any other alternate presence that might contradict the singularity of the premise that everything remained unshakably normal.
Years later, in the present and now alone in a town that in every cliche way mirrors those more positive aspirations, darkness persists like a disease. Slowly returning in a rejection of any further interest in current humanity or need to stay within close presence. A cloying sense of being discovered an unfairly judged as another irreconcilable, anti-social element, or even worse! A metaphysical ‘burning tire around the neck’ form of necklace that keeps one committed to that unwavering resolute course of habitual futile actions. An internal view that produced upon one’s own behalf, fails to advance them in a positive way and is ultimately rejected. Essentially, this stay becoming an indeterminate prison sentence. One of the worst kind where a final unresolved culmination of ever anonymous life experiences denotes an overall failure. A personal Carthage where all lifetime’s efforts are summarily deposed to naught in that first moment after death. All memory consigned to the ashes blowing away quickly in a strong wind of other ongoing living existences that one would no longer have any possibility of enjoyment of.
Perhaps that lack of stability come from a small nuclear family constantly on the move in order to suit the rigors of a father’s chosen profession as book salesman responsible for playing a hand in a sense of mild schizophrenia? Chicago, Madison, Chicago, Peoria, Chicago, Skokie, Detroit, and Skokie again. All fitting a constant pattern of persistent disruption tampering with any consistency of stability. Something that would within adulthood come to haunt future actions in later life? A boy, always the outsider playing as a new stranger to his peer group. Some of whom taking delight in unexpected ways to take advantage of this newness. Something that, early on, began to feel as ‘normal’.
What can be called reality when dreams interfere with those recollections of times past so long ago? How ironic that being so well-acquainted with being ever ousted would come to find much in common with this present era of professional victim hood? Quite the reverse! Something quite independent in quickly taking offense at any slight of character as being a matter of utmost importance. How to become a loner ever more amazing when considering that knowledge that the rest of humanity is following along in the footsteps of dire existence. But also in that perpetual sense of mortal danger that all are wary of as well. The majority of humanity mindlessly cloistered by that ever-elusive thing called ‘normal’! Through at the same time, meticulously trying to second-guess this phantom societies’ ever shifting crap game. A ploy that one personally has little time left to preside or abide. The work ethic found within youthful adulthood, never leave a job half done! A curse over the long haul of life as much as a blessing to others providing functional worth to an organization.
This stress in this form of a ongoing empty lifestyle saved from a meltdown by an iron will to move on after a period of suffering and bury past personages within a new more positive identity. A viewpoint of his existence leading to an active episode avoiding self-destruction by way of a strong belief that somehow, despite whatever failures that may have transpired one moves forth. Never disregarding the fact that occasional factors relegated to ‘bad luck’ are ever-present in the malevolence of social destiny, The core belief system of true victims who suffer on without calling missing the attention to that fact.