When we die
and the flesh of a body rots,
They are what’s left of a corpse
They remain of the
Exposed and naked, to the earthen soil and creatures wiggling six feet under
Yet as death as it en-graves
There seems to be some sort of strength it encapsulates within,
Atop the calcium that gives us strength to support and carry on
Magic! enough for us to wedge our wishes and source for stability
A wish, a collar, a rib, or a tail
They give us the confidence we sought in confiding.
Life swirls itself so fast I see a whirlpool conjuring before me. As Saturday approaches the knots formed are unnerving, not untangling. I am afraid. Flustered. I want, yet I do not. Schema. Frustration. Triggering. One word, one word, one word. Chant, repeat thrice. That’s pretty much how I have been lately: so much others might think I have gone silly, or funny. Strange. “Why do you always verbalise your thoughts?” Almost as if it were a bad thing. It is, actually. Bringing the offstage monologues to the front stage – enough to dispute one’s actions and that of societal norms. Yet it isn’t controlled, although, almost subconsciously conscious. Sometimes they are heard, or loud. Other times they are passed off as mumbles, or assumed so as it drowns in the throbbing background music that mutes it, so that people almost catch a glimpse of mouthing words. Personally, thinking out loud, at the very least, channels more brain energy to rectifying and dissecting subconscious thoughts almost like a metabolic reaction were taking place; the ones that matter more in the mind, the ones that ought to be hidden within: for if we were to speak it, I fret, might lead to some sort of embarrassment (a spontaneous feeling). Gibberish. You might then verdict verbalising conscious thoughts, as in my case, a front for the front stage then, for the off-stage’s solitary is for the unsound thoughts ringing. Time is running out, our time is raining like sand grains of an hourglass. I am wearing out.
Goffman, if only you could help me break down this confusing tangy tangles of heartstring tugging and brain contractual contractions.
Is it that the good life is the simple one
(Sittin’ in the lawn watchin’ leaves go by)
Readin’ good books and playin’ songs