Rings of Smoke

These poems do not live: it's a sad diagnosis.

delirium

Posted on | November 30, 2009 | Comments Off

In many ways he was a strange man, somewhat weak, sometimes even venal, but in all, while to all appearances he was a face similar to the millions of faces that flowed in the stream together with him, inside he was not at all similar, and so, even though floated with a million faces, he was his own face, and while the faces washed away in the water, mingling, mixing and forming a collage of each other, his remained strangely untouched, alone, in a strange way uncorrupted. He was not happy with the reality of his world, the staid dull brownness which surrounded him in the murky waters in which he floated, but rather than trying to stop floating he created his own alternate reality inside his head- a reality that was totally imaginary and contrary to the dull brownness in which he floated- a reality which was a montage of brightly colored flashes- an urn in which different colors mixed and fermented and billowed out in a million different trails of sublime vapor in a million vibrant colors- right from a grievous white to a joyful pink, electric blues to sedate greens and violent reds to melancholy blacks…but never once did a wave of brown figure in that montage- dullness was never a part of that turbulent universe which had a mixture of outrageous highs to abysmal lows and the very soul of normalcy, of routine, was the boisterous abnormality of it all. And still that alternate universe of his troubled him, because of a sibilant certainty that grew upon him every day, every evening and every night- a tedious certainty that the only real thing about this absurdly brilliant universe of his was that it was imaginary, and he wanted to leave his world and migrate to the one inside his head with an urgency so desperate that it almost clawed upon his heart, leaving scores of rended tissue welling with blood which flew as light and colourless as tears, even as he ;in a paradox of sorts; clutched to his real brown world even more desperately in an effort to get to the one he had imagined for himself.

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