Reality is a twine, not fundamental in its intrinsic nature, but a composition of implicit cacophony. As a tawdry prophet once proclaimed to my father of thirty years years, "That which is considered predetermined is determined beforehand." The poor quality of such deceptive information relies not only the nature of transfer, but the inferences regarding spatial arrangement.
Words thrown together like an abstract painting represent a language without proper interpretation. The bases of communication relies on careful approximations and disregards the subtleties carefully placed like subconscious cues.
Cecil enjoyed playing with his family and as he grew older and more distant, permitted himself to enjoy the external nature of other families. If not outgoing in their feelings toward Cecil, Cecil was at least an observer of a life that had once contained him. Afraid to stare, Cecil often picked some tantalizing and intellectual literature from which he could glance at parents reading to their children, pushing little boys and girls on swings at just the right moment as if to balance the force that only death trumped. The force that pushes people onward and upward beneath consciousness under the guise of success and progress.
Cecil had recently discovered books on tape and appreciated that anyone would take time out of his or her day to read to him. Money had no bearings in the world of nostalgia. Cecil drew a potted plant and had placed the illustration aside his bed. Every morning the clatter of the blinds would relentlessly focus sound onto his sensitive ear drums reminding him of the painful delay between one dream and the next.
I write as if there is anything to say. Let the record show scratches and dips in the warping reality of information capture. Let the next listener believe the original contained only these imperfections, and not those that live among the content.
No comments:
Post a Comment