lifewithoutfear:

To my dearest,

The days have lost their names, clocks have become redundant, the ability to distingush the difference between a memory and a dream has all but abandoned me. Johnny had a word of warning for this-in fact he had a few-depersonalization, derealization, auditary hallucinations, verbigeration….even when the meaning evaporates from all the tangible aspects of life, the semantics anchor me to the distant memory of reality; as i used to know it. I’ve never been so terrified by all the devestations my psyche could dish out at a moment’s flicker.

I can predict my downfall. Firstly the words will become strangers, obscured with the thousands of contextual meanings until the contradictions have rendered its interpretation to nix. But even when words devolve back into phonic melodies, the letters will remain, however disorganized.

It will start slowly, barely audible, guised in a cloak of irrelevance.

Then they will depart from the alphabetic prison, break the perimeter and dissolve into the blurr unfathomable.

I wont notice until a quarter of them have disappeared; so distracted by the curious bends and curves shimmering across my optics

Then i will be reduced to carving out understanding using only the very first letters bestowed upon me.

hopefully they will be the members of the first verse of alphabetic juxtaposition…then i can cling desperately to (a)ˠ vowel, remembering the compassionate vowels; linking the disorientated, lonely consonates to the warm articulations of one another. Entangling one another in the sweet exchange of identity, fearlessly exposition of themselves…true lingustic intimacy.

Some intercouses between letters gleam with such passion that they inspire tears in their observers. They are shameless, selfless creatures; giving mankind the gift of communication-the gift of understanding the obscurities of a foriegn soul. Without the examples set by the modest fibers of the universe; i would know nothing about the one pure satisfaction this world offers.

My eyes are bleeding now

,slow-moving cascades of salty

emotion; dampening my face, hiding the miss

leading facade of my physical features.

my ravenged pores, glass orbs widened into thoughtless fixations. my pupils have consumed the translucent colors of my iris-those morbid pools and necrosis, dehumanity, shattered windows weathered by cold winds of fast air that cant be… described

is this how we are to die?

My time has become temporary. The physical (whats left of them) aspects of my surroundings are untrustworthy, it isn’t a concern anymore, i was told by a letter’d ghost about ill (f)usions of perception, the vain nature of objects, the cowardance of colors….so afraid of being unseeable, not invisible. The creeping sickness of trans parency is a blessing, allmost a relief of the burden that we are only afraid because we can’t picture nothing.

0

^^^^^^^^eternity^^^^^^^^^^^

0

^^^^^^^^^^so^^^^^^^^^

@@                          0

@@                             ^^^^^^^bright^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

0

^^^^^^^^^^gotta^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

0

^^^^^wear^^^^^^^^^ ʲ

shades of black are far more idosynchronic then i ever before noticed. the intensity of the blackness is determined by its depth, the more isolated the inevitable source of light is the more omnipresent the surrounding blackness is.  the more hopeless, the  (un) conquerable, the (un) identified.

if God persists exists

he lingers at the end of a five and a half minute hallway

downward under the miles of spiral staircasing

lost among the million different doors leading to the same empty room

hunched over an opaque glass table

shivering uncontrollably, unable to gain composure

trying to come as close

as possible

to a tiny saucer at the center of the table

that holds a

tiny

wax

candle

the only light kept alive so that everything else can

believe pretend

it w_s s_id th_t the singul_r light burns the brightest in the most _bsolute d_rkness

_ met_phor for hopeʱ

only bec_use the _lternative r_ttles the very core of our evolution_ry s_feguards th_t kept us from dying the moment we were born

there is no c_ndle

we only see the light bec_use it would be _ nightm_rish dystopi_ without the belief th_t somewhere, out in the p_r_dox of empty sp_ce, exists _ being th_t h_s one, inf_llible, me_ning th_t c_nnot be denied by _ny sentient mind.

we _re sc_red little children, never overcoming th_t instinctu_l fe_r of the d_rkness, forever convinced of the lurking boogeyman

how lucky

if we didn’t fe_r it, it would end us. ironic_lly our l_ck of knowing is the only thing th_t we know in this world

Do you get the jist of the song now?

___, _____ ___ ____ __ _____ ____. __  ___   _______  ____    _______      ____   _________   ____ ________ ____ _____ ____; _______ _ ___ ___ ___ ___ ______ (_____ __ ________ )______ _______ ___ ____ ____ _____ _____ ___…

______ _____,ʶ

@tl@s W. Tr@ylorʷ

__________________________

ˤ In December 2009, I wrote this piece with no direction or intention of what i wanted it to be. After i wrote the original draft and then read it a few days later. i couldn’t remember what i myself had meant by its encoded babble. I dismissed it as a flawed creation of my flawed psyche-nothing of substance. But a look closer a few months later has produced new clues about the nature of the writer’s mind. In essence, this piece is a love letter written to my endeared art of the written word.

ˠ Words are so maluble, like a sculpture made of clay-the words being the particles that create the final product. A deconstructionist technique to delve into the phonic sounds of the word as it reverberates in our mind as it is read, is to add or subtract the individual letters and thereby yield new meaning to the previously ordianary-looking word.

ʲ “Eternity So Bright, Gotta Wear Shades” by Stuck Lucky. This is an example of visual writing, in the explicit sense where words are arranged with other characters to create a painting to better convey the emotional echo of the words read.

ʱ by subtracting something as critical to the formation of a word like a vowel is to destroy the word partially. This allows the reader to break ties with the once-familiar word and by forced to look at it in terms they may not understand or enjoy. Destroying words has the same sensual experience as creating them, for me. I think it a mild crime of creative literature that it is considered deplorable to invent words that “dont” exist. The dictionary is only a tool that attempts to describe all the concepts present in the human experience-that is an impossible task; it is up to every new generation to add more descriptions to life.

ʶ “4, 5 3 4 2 5 4. 2  3  7  4 7  4  9  4 8 4 5 4; 7 1 3 3 3 3 6 (5 2 8 ) 6 7 3 8 6 5 3…

6 5.” I purposely wrote this last sentence and then deleted all the letters and left only the underscores of each word-i’m unknown to my former’s reasoning as to why. What i’ve done here is count the invisible letters and write the formula out, i could try and rewrite the outro with this model. But its nearly unfathomable to think i would be able to get the single meaning out of the millions of possibilities; this is the fundamental argument for deconstruction.

ʷ one of my psuedonyms, should read “Ch@ndler J. @llen .