Bile humour Apathetic hemetic Fluent indifferent Emetic Phlegmatic

 
Silence

One thing I never hear is silence. Oh, you can capture it in certain ways, but each is mistaken. We confuse silence with stillness. We enjoy a "quiet" night on the porch. The chirping of crickets and the passing of cars may be peaceful, but not silent. Earplugs don't work. They may keep the outside world at bay, but they amplify your inner turmoil. Every swallow, every heartbeat, every breath brings with it a realization that we can never escape into ourselves. I can hear my spine move, making me more aware of its motion, its pain. The music in my mind, ever-present, intruding on that little man in my head, my inner voice, always thinking--loudly--or rehearsing what I'm reading. It never ends. To eliminate it would eliminate the very comprehension--the realization--of silence if it were ever attained. For when it is appreciated, it is gone.

posted by Phlegm at 12/01/2002  (0) comments

 
Dream Drivel

I wrote this in my sleep. Original punctuation and form is preserved.
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He vaulted over the precipice into a grassy knoll, whereupon he slipped upon the banana fragment docilely conveying his adept acupuncture across the chasm.

Leaping over what seemed to be defunctory commentation, several alabaster sandscrapers cascaded into the grassy knoll.

Nothing so panic-stricken as this, the adept forlornly caterpillared as a sassy troll might have, gleaming in the white wind under a pale moon sky, butter-laden with cheesy tidbits of sausage and wine and carrots and other things, leaving the plate saucy and empty.

How there was never a trampoline such as this monstrosity, cowering in the ample wind like such craven macintosh.

Trying to alleviate its pedestrianism, crossing hither and fro across the landscape, perpetuating its existence endlessly over time with the wind lilies in the sunset.

Red hues of overt grey shattered the landscape likewise, as none of them had ever forseen the ever-changing monstrosity child. With a voice like the wind, she chewed somnambulantly over a chucker-full cup of spasm.

And spasm it was, as surely as the wind-dried leaves left the carapice unto the grassy knoll.

Paper signed and stamped, a stamp frisked onto the paper in a maelstrom of lullabies, shaken or stirred into the conscious stream of mind.

But none of this mattered, thought the man as he dangerously duped his hard-fast attackers, streaming into the night forever.

Botchulism filled the sky, and balanced precariously on the wingtip of the chapel. Such sweet sorrow, laden not unto birth, but unto Heaven in all its glory and splendor, whereupon animals dazed and confused, not unlike yourself, clambored for a piece of glory evermore.

Waterfalls chanting with the sonorous sea, embracing its frailty with rigitity. Whose felled freedom is this? Asking monumental chiasms in the brain, one does not find the answer. Sepulture. Annurism. These things matter not...not which the brain cannot find or alleviate for lack of better understanding.

Someday he will be. There are problems unforetold. Whispers in the windpipe unforeseen. A ladel of thought and truth, penetrating the darkness unto which many have fallen. He sees me all the time, and digests his food regularly. The bus ambles over to the crossroads. Such treasure so precious, crystals glinting so bright into the eye of the beholder's mighty penchant for dualistic behavior.

But why, why must the soil be freed so soon? The masked rider scrapes in, feeling the frenzy of the botched pendulum, feeding the frenzy of the pole in the marsh, holding against the wind over time memorial.

The noise so bitter and sweetly dangerous, kissing the neck in a medley of misanthropic transambience, sometimes turning from the void of despair and loneliness not unlike the turning of the waterclock.

So driven and ushered is she, whose ambulance drives away the hunger for solipsism. A point upon a line within a space within whatever formality--a system of disbeliefs forever concocted out of broken dreams and promises, a window into our past of departures and rememberances, shattered and splintered. So little remains. Just some chalk and a piece of wire, unremembered like a dying flame.

It heats the soul, the sole collector of consciousness, underlying our very being without undermining our existence. Whereupon shall the slivers stand, whisking in the wind of starkness? Is there no solace from the disengaged? Like a lightning rod, it directs the film of your life into a corpus christi collasum. A colloseum by name, a mausoleum by design, harvesting harbingers of destructive decay into the molds of bitter transcendentalism.

Nothing ever and before, so clean like the viscous wind caterwalking outside your doorstep unto eternal lushness. Green sonarr, escaping the void of conscious desire, an unconscious aftertaste of victory and fire.

The battleship's majestic null clings to sweet definity. Like the unknown wanderer, transversing the null with uncertainty, marching along in the desert sand toward a building in the shrouded mist. Diamonds in the sand, found in the rearview mirror of justice, hammered into the feet of Amos. The mosquito. Dies with a lurchful posture amid the dunes of neutrality. Dunes of broken glass, remnants of shattered ambiguity and function, a linear dependence of neverending animosity.


posted by Phlegm at 8/02/2002  (0) comments