: SPIRITUAL NEGATIVES As if ready, there and then, to glide himself, slightly but surely, at long last, after so much time, right – spang – into the grace, this prospect, that is, of having legs, this, the prospect, after all, being all that need be to attain them, at the very malleable point of this malleable narrative, – HARLEQUIN. walked as he had done forever. Slowly – and somewhat curbed by an antagonizing weight – he proceeded as he had always done, from where he began – which was where he had been – to another place, and in slow yet strident footfalls lent what little refractions and spots of himself to an idea of a substance. But his form ran so much like a kind of spiritual negative, a talisman stuck in soot and dust. At the sound of his travel he awoke once more, suddenly out of the bastion and out to support these unwieldy mutations what that he seemed to life. As if it were a truism by its merely being thought. He was to be more than a mere berth of empty space, he thought. And one day to become as it were a rare materialized sort of thought instead. An object, or something, comprised of his deliberations, peregrinations, steps and footfalls. This. And all of his thoughts, of course – when one exists purely within a limit itself – are especially worthy to retain. He thought. If even as a single, absolute egg. Whether by shades of memory or physical keep. It was necessitous. It was to be done. It was deadly necessitous. And if the keep of it is in memory, thought HARLEQUIN. Well. He was right. For in a place so unreasonable as infinitude – infinite, if only by succeeding berms because already within berms – one must, has got to jot down what has passed; if denied paper, retain thru memory. And that forever. It had recently come to him – if at all anything as such, here, could be recent or old even – that, if there was a particular strain of words, kept in proper ellipsis, he in turn, that is, HARLEQUIN., might could slowly raze them – raze them, one by one, yet from whence begin and whence to end ?? – of their needing his commitment to them: and so then each unimaginable abstraction passed away on from him would no longer blunt him, requiring nurse; and in turn a sanctimony in these thoughts were built upon them, over them; and eventually HARLEQUIN. could do nary a thing without making of it a material unto itself. This was in particular a soothe to him for the place was very deafening and hazardous and perhaps, he would ruminate bleakly, the result of lies. But mainly it was a soothe, this was a soothe, this all, this: for the idea that anything he thought so quickly became material was balm enough, and proof cold-hard that he had some grips left in him. Some thoughts extant well and right as rain. Somehow HARLEQUIN. would blankly wish a correction to some previous engagement with dereliction which would as reflexive and horrifyingly tedious as hiccups, as an iota of gas, loose from his maker’s hand all the work he had done – to immaculately conceive himself and thereby a lesser reality into existing. This was how it had been but somehow it delighted HARLEQUIN. to know this too would also be how it would be. In that drawn out sort of way that reality makes mortals, what HARLEQUIN. reached to grasp overall was a sense of perennial standards for a clinically mortal person. It existed, this reality, [for the reality of the world he wished to enter he knew nothing about] just about, though it was not right. As of now. At least, it was a finer thing than his chaotic dwelling he knew and HARLEQUIN. was fine with that. Sometimes the pitch of rasp and wind together spooled unto his chamberless chambers – ah – some out of sorts, repetitious chord, or maybe voice. But he knew not commands and did not relish the possibility of being anything besides alone amongst silent beyond. Anyway such a presence would only be virus; he would have no say in what was to be done. At the least now, it was certain he knew what he had to do because he himself was the only vessel. But introduce an outsider of course – well – you will find your brain where it would usually tickle would burn. The nastiness of this voided somewhere not even a most reassuring voice could claim away from him. HARLEQUIN., of course, had had more unilaterally opposed experiences to creating what by now must be [or was] a vast array of multiple prisons before he had started to reason with the voice even; before then of course when he had made up his mind it – had been – some other, alone figure, biting into and thwarting what was already a waning pressure to succeed. He needed no concession ever in his life and not much could be said of his life but it was not do to having stubbornly eluded concessions. For the very sort of masculine twilight of his dwelling was enameled of truth yet outside of the truth, or exist and they different all suggested but the same absurdity: not why he had gone on, he knew that, but how he had gone on. As in a repressed and very local valve of his heart, muted, came one single note, a tremor, HARLEQUIN. all debilitated and bone began to collect a roster of clues as to this, and existing momently forever.
Posted on: Wed, 30 Jul 2014 10:20:56 +0000
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