This piece must be eye-catching, more than resonating, to the public.
The body must be in likeness to an actual physique... an ill, tarnished physique.
And, to keep the body in mind, I must first stress the demographics of the equal importance
of the bodies mind.
In truthfulness, this paper-temple is no place to find structure.
I will provide you
An
Example.
There is such an utterly breathtaking lack of proper construction due to the
withering DEconstruction accumulating over the course of… 7,765 days.
I have been this way, and getting more this way, for over seven and a half thousand periods of 1,440 minutes.
In truth, this is not eye-catching, for
it is necessary to hold resonance,
some underlying appeal,
to mean something to someone.
We look for ourselves in other people
We look for a personalised message to tell us
We are not alone.
I now rewind 14 years to the time of adolescence as I sat upon my grandfather's lap whilst he expressed his beliefs of the One true God and Father conditioning his children and allowing the jailbreak of His not-so-favourites.
“We are not alone,
We are not alone,
We are not alone.
The original Heavenly hosts were cast out and released onto this plane.
We are not alone.”
We tend to repeat repeat repeat when we are unsure, stuck, or serious.
I believe he was all.
This 64 year-old-veteran of many shades of life,
Well-rounded and educated on the vastness of the world’s largest library-
-When he walks the 24 minute walk into town, all hats are off.
He is sturdy. Serious.
He is not a man of games,
Though I found, he has done his fair share of playing
with fire.
“There are things that are not men,
That hold the body of men, to appear as men.
There are beasts with the heart of snakes
and the tongue of silver
and no heart of, but lust for
gold.
There are things in the night
And things in the day,
And drafts that blow a bit too fiercely to be explainable.
My child
We are not alone.
The most sacred thing was once the mind,
Though the mind can be invaded
If the door to the soul is knocked upon.”
We tend to ramble ramble ramble ramble when we are unsure, stuck or serious.
We tend to retract, cave-in, withdraw, act-out, wither,
We tend to lose our minds when we are in the company of those unwelcomed.
And we are not alone.
And I am so sorry
if this resonates with you.
I now fast forward to 1985 to the moment of a far-too-late discovery when The Breakfast Club poured out the words that were and always would be significant throughout the years.
“Things look clear in black and white
The living color tends to dye our sight
Like dynamite
Just imagine my surprise
When I looked into your eyes and saw
Your disguise
If we dare expose our hearts
Just to feel the purest parts
That's when strange sensations start to grow
We are not alone”
We are not alone,
We are not alone.
The 12-year-old who looked in the white-chipped-paint-jagged-edged reflection translated
the cinematic message delivered by the upper-middle-classed-flipside-ragged backdated
teens
Teens who lived an average life of general turmoil and classic frustration over becoming educated
Who would never experience,
Smell
Touch
Taste
Breathe
Dream
That their message intended to generate feelings of non-isolation and comfort and combating loneliness
would reverberate a chilling hidden retrospective message that could never be evaded.
There are shadows that dance across the ceiling in pure dark, as a vortex generating of themselves.
There are mists that dwindle in the corners of our eyes, twice moreover already misted from
an attempt to understand the impossible.
There is an essence of deep-rooted mystery
And LOVE, oh the LOVE,
Of the most unpropitious yet simultaneously sanctified and spotless virgin enigma
Of the ultimate unhallowed yet double-edged vexatious perfected madness
Found in the coetaneous god(given) and god(less)
Spirit
Found
in the Black Mass of this merciless company.
For I am not alone,
I am not alone,
I am not alone.
I AM NOT ALONE,
I AM NOT ALONE,
I AM NOT ALONE.
And I am so sorry
If this resonates with you.
I lie here now, deflated, in a moment of remoteness, with eyes to match the stagnancy of thine own aura
My inner self flashes back to every singular moment of every instance of every question of every ethereal shatter
pin-pricked into my grey-matter
I trace the memories-
(-or were they dreams?)
with my fingers along the bedspread of this oak foundation, the left hand performing my mental tales and the right,
clenching the silken fabric
“This is… this is it,” I say to no one.
“Is it?” No one says back.
I hear them responding, and continuing their retort with a following plea.
They fade in, their voice in tremolo, “Can you help me?” They fade out, just the same.
These days I do not turn anymore
These days I remain firm in my position and look straight ahead until the celestial divine evaporate
These days I simply accept the logical and discard the remarkable
These days I pretend I am alone.
This is not a gift
This is not an opportunity
This is not who I want to be
The Me I believe I am is not the Me that my mother, brothers, or priest sees.
This is an illness
This is a disease
This is a disorder
The Me I believe I want to be is not the Me that me, myself or I see.
Speed ahead to my moment of acceptance and falsified triumph as a 21-year-old woman laid before one 21 years her senior,
As a porcelain-esque figurine crumbles before herself yet maintains the outward vigor of a child,
As the final tears of triumph and defeat grace the withered cheeks,
As the spirit to this vessel contains the meat and essence of what should not be, but is
I see her,
you,
me.
I see them, they,
she.
We are not alone.
And I am so sorry,
If this resonates with you.
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