Volume two the inevitable fallout
Volume three reconoiter, recover, reboot, relaunch, reminiscing the good times, all systems go
Volume four where we are now; the place emptied out; there, by yourself, facing yourself, nowhere left to run, forced to cope with all the disorders, relive the dysfunctional one act horror show with a near empty theater in tow, made to carry around this audience of hecklers, stalkers and bad press in perpetuity, throughout the universe and beyond, at this point, into the infinite far away, a place incomprehensible to all who stumble upon this nomansland, no man an island after all, but a peninsula maybe.
Five through nine: where we take stock of the things we are, what we cannot endure, what we require (turns out it's not much), what we don't really need but want around us to bolster our ego, keep the faith, find our way back home (turns out to be a very long list including palmetto, sugar, the law and caffeine) and lastly, with baited breath, the impetus to begin again. To do this whole shitshow all over again. But for what? Because we were so close the first time? And now, with just a little more care and precision, you'll get it right this time.
You know what I mean? he asks, although somewhat rhetorically, she can't be entirely sure so she shifts her weight from foot to foot as if that were enough to convey tacit agreement in order to move the conversation along but not definitive enough to stand up in court should he be confessing something darker that she didn't pick up on. It's for this reason that she never knows how to respond to "you know what I mean?"
Except when Ryan said, "you feel me?" That's a little different, to be fair. It's more about empathy, with room left for residual antipathy in case a shape shifter has momentarily taken over the body of this degenerate gambler standing before you. To be fair, Ryan hadn't always been a low life. At one time he was an innocent child. At some point, he was corrupted, most likely against his better Judgement, but perhaps he was just game for some kind of change not realizing it was Mephisto not Miss Memphis standing before him in her pageant banner.
Miss Universe gave way to Ms. Galaxy. Then, back by populaire demand, the antipasta, anti-fascinating, anti everything pageant, beloved by all the misfits of misfit island, the miscreants with nothing good to say, the daudlers, both caustic and hostile, and the fantasy dwellers who want things to be other than what do we have here?
Where nothing is as it seems ergo nothing goes as expected. When nothing can be legitimately predicted based on a plethora of data promoting consistency, reliable metrics of order extending out from the chaos of creation or the most meticulously deduced theorems following centuries of prestigious thought. We humans tend to place accolades over the face of predictability when it comes to outcomes we prefer. When pesky truths reveal the most horrible facts staring back at you, we look for confirmation. When we get it, we announce, "Two outta three, k?"
We run with the good, go kicking and screaming into the void when confronted with irrevocable badness. We can't change, although we try. God knows we give it the old college try, go beyond all reasonable expectations, max out the engine...for what? To prove to ourselves that our due diligence cannot be called into question, by even the most stringent of generals brought in on the case. In the shadow of greatness, we can do nothing but relent. We crumble into our smallest fundamentals, the tiniest ball of matter we can be and still be considered us. Then, ruthlessly meted out of clay and rust colored blood, we reform into the adroit, manipulated, mutated version of our perfected selves. To be put on display at the Smithsonian Institute. The last of their kind on permanent exhibition, travels all over the world, picking up fragments of consciousness masquerading as dark matter, painting over our colors to match the hue of the screen behind us. Invisibility is our motto. We imbue rather than present. We infuse instead of hold ourselves in a constant state of composure. Not many can handle this state of inconsequence. Our egos are just too malformed to accept dying quite that seamlessly. We fight it, we struggle, we march on in défiance. How dare you or anyone expect me to accept my demise without protest.
Didn't you learn anything? exudes from the atmosphere of rocks, dust and oppressive heat. Who goes there? As if God or conscience would feel compelled to answer such a wretch like me.
So you begin to sing. Amazing grace how sweet the sound... Still, the stillness confounds. It's as if we really are alone out there in the universe. God, I wish you were there. What do I have to do to prove to you... <THWAP>
baratheonpilled
amandla
andulkaphoto
2087
theartofmadeline
