Katabotic

The burden of freedom and introspection.

Pen for permanence; paper for fragility. Incoherent thought is lost in the translation to structured statements. The song is trapped on a cycle of repetition, and in the end, it’s nothing more than bad poetry.

Inspiration wails on nights such as these. The words spray and flicker off a lopping tongue, desecrated with a savage urge to quench the pit of hunger. It won’t be long before the cavity stretches into a yawning mouth, eager to gnaw the marrow.

Meanwhile, the mind unhinged itself during the introspective backsplash. It was bitter, diluted and in want of saccharine taste. The id crumbled in an apocalyptic heap. 2+2=4?! The numbers! The logic! The weight of definition!

If only the mind were malleable! Especially since I lost my religion long ago. Love? Truth? Beauty? All hidden beneath masks of cowardice. Hence, I don the guise of a motley joker.

When we are born we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools

Books offer attractive ideals, but their application stops at the threshold of the consciousness.

Up until the apex of truth, the will is merely an idea; an intangible thought. Words harbor the weight of vacancy until action provides substance.

And the birth of excess resumes.