“How might one describe her? The continence of a stern statue with an unashamed Roman proboscis. Festooned in black leather motorcycle battle jacket and boots and new blue jeans. Her soft voice belying the fact of her constant observation about the room so as to tell who wass observing. Yet, in the end, skittish like any cat.”
A day of mean spirits come of spite and craftiness. Cameras suddenly springing up everywhere to record the obvious. This era of populations waylaid upon a cloud deep within the Internet. ‘Pinions’ should be like assholes, only one to a customer! Though no one can help but admire the pluck of such enthusiasm. By sheer weight of the force of numbers the unfounded attitudes of humanity. Amassed centrally in a tape loop challenges the proposition of truly being able to gauge the intent of more specific groups with propositions too much the same yet ever unexpected.
As one scans this horizon two states of being become brutally apparent. Watch for indifference and on occasion polite respect. The weight of one in relation to the other according to the way one measures. I look about this crowded room and must remark that I fit badly within the demographic. Someone far from being seamlessly compatible! Another face to be forgotten for sure. But still too independent to take the most obvious side and not according to the imposed role of implied conformity about this room that seems in order here. Estranged at time! Perhaps? But equally ever curious at to charting the source of such revels such as they be.
The watch work that seems to motivate action ‘en masse‘ in some cases to restore the illusion of initial perfection. A slavish task in appreciation of a world created by a master’s whim. This illusion a case of mere happenstance relating the former guided by an iron hand tradition for the sake of the latter. Some women possessing the absolute assurance of an inherent noble bearing in expressing authoritative opinions formed by others and then wearing them like a cloak. Those furtive men responsible for same resting silently in the shadows about the group but soon fallen from the notion of their own perpetual future stability. Dark angels to be admired, but only from the furthest distance possible in tracts of text within white gloved perfumed paws between pastel covers by art filled romantics both young and old. Two unbreakable ends of the same flimsy filament.
A skeletal comb of bygone times wresting out the kinks from irritable longevity. From complacency the hens continue to cluck away in the next room. Paris the city burns far away as the sun struggles beneath the persistent blanket of soft gray clouds. There is no anger left as all have grown to old and tired to support it. Christmas comes along and with it all the long forgotten bedtime stories. “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can?“, the little locomotive has long thought he should! The momentary presence of the Sun above controlling all moods! In this iteration of the present it all look the same. Event changing! Turning to some sort of cosplay none of which seems meaningful in effigies of the many of the same abounding. The young find their enchantment in what is soon to come to them while the old are gleaning out what they once thought that they missed. Yet a human heart still remains the most basic of inventions beating out a clock-like constant of seventy-two.
Most people commit their private thoughts to a journal in the hopes that a future empathetic stranger will someday come to know them and posthumously celebrate their all too short existence. So many forgettable journal entries later many have grown beyond that ego dripping folly. Mankind has proven to be a pack of blood sniffing piranhas. Womankind are no better. And then again, perhaps even worse? Black, White, Yellow or brown, it’s best to watch your step around them! Keep your headlamps on in the midst of this collection at night. Few friends, if any are left over the long haul. Just temporary alliances in plentiful supply like useful idiots. Such are the boundaries of the everyday invisible existence.
The content of more dialogue posed as simply the bark of a cursory exchange of brief unsubstantial greeting. As prevalent now as a sighting of the proverbial DoDo bird. This day’s performer is an Amazon. A warrior princess of the well-advertised preeminence of that currently center staged brilliance of women over the inconsequential low lying fruit of men. Liberals insidious in their hordes urging their ideologically blinded followers to happily erode away the foundations of that previous society that raised them and allowed their current heresy feasible. All other visions in such circumstances now quickly fading. All previous notions of beauty and felicity nested in the female in mourning of the coming battle zone that will swallow them all. A society that hates itself! Ones that cannot tolerate those who have come before them. And that detest the changes that these misguided children have been allowed to wrought. Entertainers who consider themselves as artists. Is something flawed about that? Just another falsehood to be engaged in the support of faux consensus based logic now spoon-fed by texts over the phone. The users dying to regale in or revile.
Modern people ignoring the fact of rapid changes but surrendering their persistence to invoke an illusion of the same. Why should anyone considered from that former world of past tense be acceptable in being displaced? And still unconsciously, one can bask in the long promised glow of their own ideal. That ever-present fantasy of what should have been in store for such a flawed individuals such as they were made. It seems to be pathetic to see all these seniors still enraptured by such useless habits of constant accumulation when their lives must soon be abandoned. A land wrought by a Sardanapalus without the mercy of the all consuming flames. Better yet a placard to hang above them all declaring, “Worn out by the futility of a myth of modern life.”
How does one keep the bolts from coming loose from such well-used howitzer after so many misfire’s? Too many inventive schemes devised by clever designers. Ones that have been tested out on too many pounds of human flesh. You live to long and your mind becomes poisoned by this experience as it leaches out every hint of childhood innocence. Depleted in great part by the art and craftiness of too many others just like you. Where after all does one find spirit and soul in anything posed as alive anymore? Not in the pretense of simply simulating the same on a screen! Who knows what shame in desperation there is in growing up in France? Mannequins that one is expects to accept for the fact of a love of Socialist principles alone. Women have abandoned their partners ‘en masse’ wishing to soak up all the limelight. Indefensible egos, they ever pretend to revile their mates. How fitting given the presence of divine justice that so many men must go blind and deaf simply to survive. Love and attraction now long lost in some incurable inability to see further back than the past few minutes. That persistent odor of rotten spoiled milk about the many aging carcasses of those that were once loved.
Self-reflection being a difficult process that theoretically speaking suggests that forgiveness is divine. Yet, it does not seem very popular in these these days. “Like!“, as in “I was, like . . . !“, being that alternate based persona representative of an anonymous self. Whisper and you’ll get everyone’s attention in the room! Confidences must be traded very carefully in such circumstances. Still amazing that in this age of wireless phones that anyone bothers to converse aloud! Being unique or conspicuously standing out against the crowd is no longer a virtue that garners appreciation. More a struggle to wrest a name from bygone days from memory and match it by how it sounded or an approximate meaning that they think they know yet coyly teases. The most proper definition in such circumstances is too finally feel old as you realize that your facilities have finally failed you.
Do young women of today rebel against their physical definition as being the primary vehicle for continuing the species? So many of these feminine transposed into Peter Pans now the officially designated mother’s of this current ‘Never Never’ land. Foucault accurately suggesting that the current penchant for group identity now begins with the ‘I’ yet ends up in the third person? And outside the traffic signal counts down to no one. Those that will be most fondly remembered will have their name plastered over the asses of humanity or the bags that their customers carry around.