Saturday, March 04, 2006

Semeion and Terata

I shiver.

A natural, uncontrollable reaction to the cold. Instinctive. Under normal circumstances I would likely not brave the elements and the resulting unpleasantness, but I'm a slave. A victim of addiction. The demon beckons and I have to choice but to obey - Seek out the blessed nicotine.

Now.

So it's out into the darkness of an arctic winter. I feel foolish... Somehow weak allowing myself to be controlled by a habit. Forced to bundle up and head scurrying out into the most miserable of days. Enclothed in a suit designed to fend off the elements, hood pulled in close, face down to avoid direct exposure to the wind I quickly seek shelter behind the building. A place moderately protected from the blowing snow. My haven. A quiet spot to relax, or at least relax as much as one can when huddled uncomfortably trying to ignite a cigarette in the midst of a storm. Away from stupid questions, annoying people, and life in general.

Cigarette lit I finally take a moment to look up and gaze out at the raging winds.

And notice him - A faceless stranger lurking in the dark.

He appeared to be doing nothing. No cigarette was lit, no tool in hand, no easily discerned purpose. Simply a strange man in a strange place. Which leads me to my next thought:

"How strange."

Lurking in the dead of night. Lurking in the arctic winter. Just lurking. For no apparent reason.

"Fuck. It's cold." He says.

"Yeah, Almost like it's winter."

"How long is it supposed to last?"

"Till Spring."

He fades into the darkness. Saved by the yellow bird.

The catholic church speaks out against South Park. Inadvertantly the pope sparks a ressurgence of the show's fading popularity.

Nice work Benedict.

But who killed the Clutters?

In Cold Blood indeed.

Time, I've concluded, is an evil adversary - Fleeting and intangible. For a moment you have too much on your hands, the next it's been wasted. Gone. And impossible to get back. Always astounding the amount of it people are willing to expend worrying about it, how much they've lost, how it has slowed to a crawl, or how it seems to fly by. Pointless - Can't catch it, stop it, or even slow it. Can't travel though it and no use in fighting it. It happens. It passes. Always has. Always will.

Regret. For things done, or things that should have been. Missed opportunities. Lost chances. The sad, pathetic realization that things could have turned out differently had you only taken the time.

A regurgitation of petty thoughts too long entrapped within the hollow that is my head. Echoing irritatingly. Increasing exponentially until finally it breaks loose of its feeble container and is released into...

The aether of cyberspace.

Serpent or Rainbow. Or something in between.

Blinded by the lies. Enraptured by the belief that I've been caught up in the drama of real life. Those oddly intriguing events that seem to occur all around me, but always to other people. Observational only. Interaction is prohibited. And please don't feed the humans.

"O".

It was magnificent wasn't it? Or another figment. Illusion.

Or delusion.

Can't help but notice the lack of focus, of fluidity, or of continuity.

Indeed. No matter really. They are free.

And all is well.

Except, perhaps, for the fact that lately I have been most definitely inspirationally challenged. A casual observer drifting aimlessly about devoid of direction. Blown about wherever the hopes and dreams of others may carry me. Occasionally I tend to wonder if a purpose would have made a difference, if there is a chance that by not really worrying about which way the wind is blowing I have somehow missed the boat. Or if, somehow, I have overlooked yet another painfully over used cliche.

I doubt it.
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