THE SCAB OF LIVING

Structures exist, and walls crumble - the excitement for things never ceases. We live in a numbness of adventure where angels pummel the exterior of things, and demons caress its interior. This is the scab of living, this is the scab of life. We are who we are through forgetfulness, we are who we are because of pain. To walk the walk without interference, without neglect or consequence, this is the reason...the smell of sweet nectar is the smell of slow death. The structure slowly implodes from that tiny spot, that tiny internal spot that seemed so insignificant as to almost seem shruggable, inoffensive, sublime. We are always at the mercy of what? Fate, kismet, karma, chaos? Doesn't really matter what you name it, what you tag it...it happens regardless, it happens with the waking, unblinking eye, it happens with the closed. Spasmodic interludes are...spasmodic interludes. A walk to the bathroom is a hike to a mountain temple, but with no sage at the journey's end, just a sanctimonious bowl, a curvilinear health appendment. It's a sterile world where even an ape can't act normally. We are the creatures of the demi-monde, the half world between/betwixt the shadows. We are the ape that never really sleeps, we are the ape with a scab for living.