The broken tower.
September 19, 2010
Deprived of oxygen, light-speed resuscitations, and ether, something inside has vanished. Something inside is gone.Despite the self induced state of isolation, alone had never been equivalent to lonely. Always the observer on the outside. Always that detached sense of perspective. The dreamer of the dream, but not the dreamer in the dream.
Feel the wind brush through my hair, trace my eyebrows and my cheeks. Watch the mortals pass, observe as they indulge in their own diversions. See the traps they set up for themselves and fall right into while forgetting they were the ones to set them there to begin with.
High tower, my looking place, no one looking back. It's simply what it was.
That- was before. Now- something's lost. That deeper "sense of" is broken, and no matter what the actual outcome may turn out to be, it's only gray tainted days that seem to stretch out forever into the future.
One event takes place after the other, moving time along with sunsets, sunrises, and moments of twilight marking the pace. But somehow, the scenes are distorted, the surroundings are distant, and the person behind the experiences isn't even observing on the surface.
It was- that fatal moment in which I realized that an unexpected connection had been formed, that an unprecedented sense of security took over. Suddenly it wasn't just alone. It was someone else on the same side, looking out into the world with me. It was someone else that had been looking out into the world with me since always, except that now, we were looking out into the world together, despite the 650 miles of distance between us.
And then, snatched. Stolen by fate, and time.
That sense of security was shattered, broken into a million pieces that scattered irreversibly throughout the time continuum, and replaced by the deepest sense of loss.
I can hope. I can always hope that even if it's not the same type of connection, that another connection can be made. But somehow, it seems more likely that such a fate will never come true. Eons of neon before, eons of neon after, the ephemeral light that burned out as quickly as it struck like lightning bolts, is now only a silent memory etched out on soul and skin.
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Now I try. To transform. The experience into output.
I'm holding on to a focal point: the next release. It's as if I somehow expect for each release to bring an imminent life change. As if I can manage to get some of this out of me into the out there, that somehow the release will transcend into some manner of transformation. But after the next release? Unknown, unplanned, void of desire or projections. Yet… I feel like the output of this next release is not proportional to the level of broken. There's no masterpiece here, no grand finale with which I could proudly wave adieu with. Just an injustice- an exponential failure at the quality of expression that should have been projected from the input of suffering. But it's not Alchemy, or chemical reactions. And maybe, the only thing I've excelled at throughout this has been at finding new ways of adding more shades of tragedy into my spectrum.