• Marcel Wormsley

Silent Inhibitions to Rest


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I am stillness, still me.

Beholding the innocuous gesture of a Recurrent and timely presence. It encompasses me whole, Embracing me with a dire earnestness and constancy of grasp, A veritable representation Of an old man’s impetuous but fleeting importunancy for an unattainable Survival and redemption. But is it I alone whom Nature herself has perchance decreed To succumb so readily unto this damp, caliginous mass of apathy, Habited in its old familiar accouterments, Bespeaking the eternal languor and quietude its hand imports? Nary a sound…a single utterance even. Very well, but if it is indeed the case that I stand so decreed, then for what purpose, what cause? Obligation screams from within, but I cannot be so moved. It becomes but a feckless and stifled show of potential and ideal I cannot attend.

I cannot return her embrace, embrace me.

And must wonder whether in good faith this gesture really be. I stand blindfolded, an adynamic blob of unrequited existence With hushed breath. In my last efflux my independence is proclaimed and I am surely bereft of him For good, Knowing him only in the evanescence of disconnected globules which Fall from the Precipice in pure Freedom.

I am constricted. Constrict me.

Brooding arms, warm and callous; a distinct heaviness in the breast That obtrudes, enjoining me to palpate a blunt lump of discarded soul, Which startles me. My subjugation awaits. Perhaps it is on a quest of sorts, a movement of insatiable pursuit to Breach the sanctum sactorum of all my life’s energies and Protective tendencies. All efforts at resistance fail, all new passions aborted. All creative inspirations, self-preserving propensities, nascent and past, Presently bound unto this sad, sprawling vale of shiftless moments and Privation for its own sake.

I am oppressed. Oppress me.

A salient fury it has not, like the e’er so rapacious flame that Traipses about in search of men who will feed his familiar hauteur with Forced awe, vaunting of his imminent identification with a consummate and definitive Destruction, masquerading convincing airs of nobility. A comportment far more passive, but no less devious informs his every move and Impresses upon me a stark naked indifference, Uncompromising, unconditioned in effect. Surely if I am to be consoled by this latent innocence I could never hope to more clearly perceive, Then why do I stand here helpless, with roving arms, fleshless hands, Enveloped in merciless vulnerability? It oft vexes me the degree to which this thing contents itself on being such a relentless Self-perpetuation of mutually-sustaining contrasts, A paradox of unified and complementary expressions of euphony and cacophony, Of coarse black sand stuffed into hourglasses, but whose flow knew no beginning. It happily abounds in the very dearth it encapsulates, a taste doubtless bitter to Discriminating tongues. But verily even in this bitterness a certain sweetness emerges, Manifesting sections of its hitherto concealed face through Spasmodic implosions of youthful vitality.

It abides. It moves. Me.

It traverses worlds, minds. With a peculiar yet seemingly characteristic élan it commences its solidification into a Confounding and omnivorous quintessence of intricate paths Which I am forced to follow without the ability or the wherewithal to render it Meaning or purpose. I question its intent. I question mine. Why does ambivalence cry forth so steadily, blurred by a million droplets of shame? Perchance it is I who embodies this ambivalence as such.

I am perplexed (perplex me) beyond all meaning, purpose, or intent.

Do I seek to be uplifted, nurtured, forever ravished by this fathomless mass of being One and all at rest, signified only by this dense effluvium that lingers about, Usurping that original purity and fluidity of breath I once so intimately knew? Or is my heart but a positive catalyst for an unwarranted sorrow, For tears freely tendered, tenuously grasped, and eternally lost? One certainty remains: there is no escaping the ubiquity of freely roving Monsters of solitude, For their existence is neither dependent on the transient humanity it affects, Nor upon the transient affections of humanity.

It saturates. It defines. Me.

It stands as the ultimate limit of my inception, And the very terminus of all my dear life’s possibilities borne therefrom. It is my beginning and my end. Inasmuch as I am blindly abhorrent of it I am helplessly enslaved by it. There is no pride in my fall. My will is fruitless, dispersed like hollowed-out blueberries thrown from the balcony Over the crooked ledge of broken time, Shattered like brittle hourglasses.

Her hand.

Long

separated

from

the

tethers

of

my

childhood

memories.

Damned unto perpetual submission I lie, here, In the Sun’s repose, in this cold hiatus of wind and song, Alone, treading these fields of limitless vacuity, In search of answers, in pursuit of finality. I reason vigorously, and continue to question in hopes of attaining but the slightest Foothold of understanding, Attempting to provide a final stability to these warring edifices of emotion and thought. But in their grandeur all my answers are obscured. The more I reach out to clasp the impalpable blessed hand of translucent processes And infinitely revealed meanings, The further away it retreats. Its shielded bosom rejects my cries, Pushing me back into the primordial depths of Unreality, nothingness, indifferentiation with base elements. All my fear, once cleverly played by flickering shadows on the wall, Materialized and served in a handful of black dust.

Mother! You! Mother! Me!

No longer can I rest my head on her faint promises of Assurance and untroubled resolution, As she smiles at me from that singular and glorious space Forever beyond my reach, Tattered red quilt still in hand.

Art: “The old light house at dusk” Léon Spilliaert

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