So here's the lens cap open
A thousand images distortion free
Trapped in a billion pixels
It's just the tear in the fabric of me.
He stood outside the imagined house and observed the scene. For him what made it all really
interesting was the knowledge that at any moment everything, all he
was, all he stood for and had built could just come crashing down. He
imagined that crash, what it might look like if it happened. The
first cracks, the slow motion collapse, the sounds of things
breaking, the creaks and the splintering. All those elaborate
constructions reaching a critical point of loading and that point
being overtaken by consequence and action. Pings and wisps of dust
fly out milliseconds before the bursting point is reach. Structural
failure. Then it happens, a cacophony, an explosive chaos, like a
orchestra being hit by a tidal wave, an earth quake in a clogged up
city centre, a thousand punches in a thousand faces. Recoil and
tremor, explosive criss crossing fragments and great slouching
balustrades and buttresses falling in the sick syncopation of
destruction. That would be his life, come the day, the hour and the
comprehensive doom.
He thought about the opera “Carmen”
by Bizet. The stupid Don Jose, run down and grounded by the
tempestuous Carmen, an exotic gypsy girl who leads him away from his
military career and family with disastrous consequences. She loves
the toreador Escamillo, a sin too far for Don Jose who overcome by
jealousy and passion stabs Carmen whilst in the background Escamillo
receives the applause of the bull fighting crowds. The thought of
normal and extravagant human behaviour, the extremes and the
unreasonable. How they might be like puppets, more puppet than
people sometimes. Willing participants in the fatal collapse,
bringing it all on, sowing the seeds of destruction whilst building
some solid illusion. Songs and dancing and lights and costume, the
contrived drama of all relationship and humanity. You will pay dearly
for your passions if you allow them their full vocal range. Never
getting better or easier just getting...
Then he was back at his own situation,
still turning himself inside out to be the strange sum total of some
kind for his appetite of sexual perfection. Like an operatic
performance, pomp and drama and song carrying archaic language in
which to frame all that useless feeling, bloated and pretentious as
if it was incapable of standing on it's own. He thought more, he
considered himself and the worth and merit of gaining knowledge and
holding opinion. How useful is any of and what difference does it
really make? You can have knowledge and informed views but all the
effort and turmoil of sustaining such a position is pointless if they
are not shared or exercised. There in your own head striving only to
be placed in an intellectual bubble, alone and aloof and impotent. It
makes your position no better than that of a dumb ignoramus,
contributing nothing. It was an unfortunate debate, a one way street
of conjecture, a spiral. He realised this for the thousandth time he
was stuck in a loop of an unresolved perpetual and perplexing issue.
The ultimate worth and value of knowledge and the point of study.
His head was sore with it all and he
moved to the lounge. There on the far wall there was a large drinks
cabinet. He poured four fingers of malt whisky into a crystal glass
and sat down into a battered arm chair and began to sup on the drink.
Outside, through the glass he saw a robin in the garden. It hopped
from branch to branch in the hedge. It cocked it's head back and
forwards jumped a little higher and sat on the window briefly making
eye contact with him. He took and deep draft of the warm liquor. It
seemed at that same second as the warm alcohol hit the back of his
throat the little bird winked and twisted it's beak into a cheeky
little smirk. He heard a voice in the back of his head, “you'll be
ok, trust me.”
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