Print Story Dec 22nd, 2002
By blixco (Wed Feb 25, 2009 at 04:25:37 PM EST) (all tags)
Reflecting on Dec 22nd, 1992.

(Digging through backup disks, finding emo).

And in the dark of night, in the still quiet 3:00am dark, with nothing but the alarm clock to comfort me, she gave me the empty joy of her love.  And it could have been so much more than scrap-book entries, than mindless head games, than the worrisome attribute of unfaithfulness.  It could have been so much more than the joy and sorrow, the blood and tears, the madness.  It could have been wonderful.  It could have induced spasms of music from the choirs of angels, prodding their ponderous muse with a fifty thousand volt spike.  It could have spoken of the wind, the ageless timeless wonder of the earth, the victories of heroes and the heartache of saints.  It should have been more than the still air of a back road in the middle of the fertile valley of my youth.  It should have been more than the over-amplified shadow of the ego, a backlit horrorshow of self-gratification, of selfishness.  It should have spoken more than a whisper on the edge of every bad poem and song of love lost.  Chintz and tar, mirrors and sand.

And I lay there, barren and wanting, the wash of dreams still clinging to the surface of my skin, washing my flesh, leaving it oiled.  I lay there, awake with the knowledge of the future, the script mapped, the awareness so harsh and sudden that I nearly cried out.  The beating of my heart, hammering away at me, urging me to realize, urging thought and scripture, philosophy and music.  Urging me to hear the message buried in the chests of every man, the dead words of poets.  The dry humorless laugh of lawyers, the bored stamina of clergy, the wisdom in old words.  There were reasons, there were answers, there were a million different questions floating like cobwebs through the air, catching on everything and indelibly marking it all, a chalk line snapped against the slate humanity.  Cut here, on this ragged line, plowed deep into a furrow, the breaking points defined, the route and path of this cataclysm etched onto the surface of every life.

I lay there, incapable of moving.  I was doomed, you see.  Forsaken.  Trapped.

Love had this whole plan mapped from the start.  My genes defined it.
< "Dark Clouds & Thickening Atmosphere..." | Gestational Amnesia >
Dec 22nd, 2002 | 3 comments (3 topical, 0 hidden) | Trackback
You're so emo you bleed darkness... by atreides (4.00 / 2) #1 Wed Feb 25, 2009 at 09:34:32 PM EST
SuNny Day Real EsTate...

He sails from world to world in a flying tomb, serving gods who eat hope.

Yep. by blixco (2.00 / 0) #2 Thu Feb 26, 2009 at 03:23:55 AM EST
There's a couple of idea in this that I liked though, and the disk it came off of is nearly unreadable, so here it is for my future reference.

Plus it's funny!

"You bring the weasel, I'll bring the whiskey." - kellnerin
[ Parent ]
This makes me think. . . by nightflameblue (4.00 / 1) #3 Thu Feb 26, 2009 at 04:49:07 AM EST
Maybe I should break out some of my old emo-style high-school journals. Oi, the idiocy contained in those pages.

Like the two full notebooks I filled with love-letters to an old friend after I moved away from "home." Jeezus. She just sat next to you on the school bus you fucking twit.

Dec 22nd, 2002 | 3 comments (3 topical, 0 hidden) | Trackback