Litany (Of Sorts)

July 31, 08
This is a short disclaimer,

This is utter bull shit I don't really recommend reading because it has absolutely no purpose rather than for a place for my little half heart ed rant. It never gets to anything and complains about things I don't believe in and is mostly just a ramble. At least for the readers it is for the enjoyment of knowing you, yourself, are sane.

Lucky you.

Where the " * " is present it will mention a persona Dante (if you don't know who he is I suggest you start reading...his work obviously, not this). I recently am reading Dante Inferno for the story purely not so much for the biblical of love and god ---and I already just bored myself beginning to go into the philosophy of it. I just like the imagery so I suggest you don't (If you've read Dante) try to start a discussion with me for whatever reason you'd think I'm intelligent enough to keep up. I'm bored.

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It started as a thought. Then it was erased and I had to start all over because my memory was terrible and I couldn’t recall the magic that it was brought either. Then it became words. Yes, it may seem odd but the thought was before the words because the thoughts aren’t made of words. They are more like colours. But they aren’t really colours but I’ll call them that because they need a label from our all too human world and colours is as close as it gets.

Then those colours get stirred, woven, perhaps by the breeze or music. And I’ll have a word. This might have meaning, though it will be erratically bold or insanely stupid, it’ll pierce like a wound you didn’t know how you got. It was too quick for the eye but too painful to be a lie, this painfully single word. Then it becomes more, it becomes a sentence. Once a sentence I’ll almost call it a writing, I’d call it a poem if it were more that beautiful but it isn’t and it’d be a crime to call something so dull something so meaningful. After all I’m far too normal and nothing is of mine is worth chiselling on the rock by a screwdriver and hammer. It was not even enough for the graffiti shouting out to “Change the Fucking World” on the dumpster behind the church.

So instead, I wrote it by the rain, but I swear to you I wrote it by that water which was pure from the heavens… or more likely came from the pollution from our own lakes and rivers of lies and poured down to purge us all. In ways, it was nothing, but it was going to be everything and what we wished that we would have nightmares of.

*Dante has damned Myself and All, each shadow of the lily not forgiven for stealing the nectar from the trees before it. A place in the multitudes of storage areas inside of Hell to be whipped, rained upon by fire, and be crucified…All in the name of our ill side of nature. What God makes balance with no relinquish for the punishments of our own self … Our forced upon Sins. For he made us that way… Maybe he just wanted us to make lemons and become a giant lemon pie. Something we all would end up loving, despite that we’d (again) end up dying because our bodies cannot function on its not tolerably overly tolerable sweetness.

Who sees it would love and all who sees me I love. Did I begin to mention that? I love what I’ve made myself, and all who look upon me without their burning eyelids. Then I try to look into my soul and the watery substance. Then I realize it isn’t like water, it is more like air. Then the air is more like nothing. Nothing at all. I guess I hate myself brutally as well. So selfish is this vanity of mine that I’ll smash every mirror while chipping my skin to hang framed in my dark cellar mind. More or less formerly known as my room. I’ll create each beast in justified memories and stories given to me. Yet I’ll let myself be gnawed on by their teeth that I personally brushed life times earlier. Every memory and every sin that made me who I was and that made me human for every mistake-I’ll rub fire against my skin, thinking Hell wasn’t too bad but too many people made it out alive according to folklore and more.