Stylized Sprints

#1 - Waste

Trudge. Let the feet hunger for something soft amidst the gravel of bone. Saunter beyond the light and into the valley, dimmed by the ridges, incomplete with reproach. Aching, let them be. Let the pain and blisters and boils form out of the body and into the being. Muscles of bony welts and emulsified muscles burden them, but they are emancipated through it still. The burden gives meaning.

And as they go through the lower passes of the valley, their burden grows. Until the group of eight becomes that of 6. 2 stay behind in an alcove of a ridge, collecting themselves for the moment they’ll be renewed with energy. They will stay and the 6 will go.

And the 6 will guide themselves through the feel of the ground along their bare feet. The closer to the floor of the valley, the less desolate everything seems. The wind howls not as dire, the stars become visible once more. Great, radiant stars that serve as technical light. Enough to inspire the eyes. And a scent of myrrh returns.

#2 - Ruin

I think once more of who I am and what I’ve been and I know more certainly, that the clock ruins me. That the fidelity of myself only serves to be obscured more and more desperately whenever any of its hands move. The subconscious returns to my mind and then I return to myself and then I return to the grave. The numbers upon it hate me and scorn me and curate the fear by which I live.

I want it differently. I want it to seem simple and innocuous and not to ruin me. Which is the simplest possible word for it. Ruin. By the churning of its mechanisms and gears, I become lesser. The human element is removed from me and I start in line and wait for it. To return. But it does not. And I return to the grave.

#3 - Watch

They tell me what they are far too often for me not to believe. When the sky looks at you with such emotion and presence and want to make something out of you, it begets fear. Fear is the natural response. I cannot know what it wants for me. I cannot interpret the signs of the sky.  Perhaps the evidence provided should give me reprieve, but it only serves to confuse me more.

I am not a mad person. I am not a person driven mad by much or anything. But I am knowledgeable enough to question the basics in front of me. It looks at me with power. But I am not. I am not its source or its reflection. I am myself and I am lowly and wormlike and entirely opposite to it. Perhaps it is hate. I feel hate. The hate that embodies and encircles me. I am hateable, perhaps. But to all heads, one day a crown of thorns will be placed. And if nothing else I am Him who is hated by what’s greater.