Mumbled madness meant meaninglessly mindful

“I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe...." Frankenstein~Mary Shelly

"Seem that this living nightmare has gotten too crowded for two fears to exist." ~mumbled madness meant meaninglessly mindful

Like everything I end up writing I have no idea of where I'll end up or what will come of it and yet I submit to what graves I may end up disturbing in hopes of a better ideal.

Oh wait......you're wondering where I've been and why it's taken me so long to write and to share another piece of my madness ridden mind with all of you? Perhaps beg your forgiveness for not prostrating myself and making myself worthy of your voyeuristic curiosity? That I owe you for some certain amount of indignant treatment that I have come to administer to you on my selfish and dis attached behalf? Hmmmmmm.....that?

Well, perhaps I should apologize to you, my shadowed reader for my absence of glasnost and that I should offer you some beguiled satisfaction. You do have a point and yet, you'd most likely be the one unleashing angst at groundhogs for their fickle fears at their own shadows. Either way, I'd simply say that why not be happy that I'm here than to make me regret getting back at you. After all if you wanted me to return to you fast, I'd would have crossed a few bottled messages on my path to egress.


...and so, as Pushkin would say, Onwards with my story.


A memory keeps replaying in my mind of an age past and the hurt of a torn heart masqueraded as bravado and romantic fate. Walking the streets of Redondo with a cigar in mouth, I face the sea rain with a moment of introspection and determined focus on why I would even allow myself to be placed in such a cameo role in my own love life. And yet, I simply walked on in a westerly manner into the oncoming storm.

The faint anger of gulls and the taste of salt as my cigar smoldered in my wet fingers, my world this one moment of time. I knew that I would have to return to a moment where I was everyone's lifeline and protector, a role more inflicted upon me due to the need of the moment rather than any chivalry. This moment was mine alone and with some hindsight I could see that I would have to relive a bit more indignities of being me for the comfort of a friend in need in the near future. In moments like these I've always wondered how my greatest strength was my weakness rather than any bravado. This was one of the few moments where I'd be vulnerable and scared at any feeling of love with the understanding that it will only shred me into emotional tatters than inspire me to act of greatness. It could be challenged that my greatest acts of evil has been a selfish yearning to be loved and mayhaps understood.

I've always had an affinity towards Mary Shelly. Not only had she traveled among the greatest group of vagabonds and mental gypsies ever collected, but in the act of living they would create the greatest literary movement in English literature in my humble, and perhaps foolish opinion. Romantics understanding that the world rallies against us and yet we can not even raise our own standard to pull together ourselves against any onslaught of approaching devastation. We can only stand against what wickedness comes our way with a brave and yet frivolous act of strength which many account in history has only declared silence is not mockery at our foolish and meaningless act.

I know my time clambers near, and yet I can only face it instead of cowering. As this fallen Prometheus, written by such a graceful and understanding mind know what it truly is to be human in this world, can face such overbearing opposition with a choice of a scowl or open arms expecting any embrace. It's clearly known why I'd would rather forsake any creator of mine in hope of not shaming them with such a lowly creature. I can not help to understand a yearning for the embrace of kindness and yet expect only the quick and harsh strike of reprimand.

You could simply state that all my acts of need have simply been rewarded with lacking compassion and desire. Self explained my actions are in why I'd rather take on my Holy airs and mantle not to carry favor to anyone who judged me as incomplete at birth, but for the sake of simplicity and peace. Of course I hunger for the warmth of a caress and yet I know for certain that any sharp stings of cruelty can not reach me either. It's a costly price and yet I'm already accustomed to paying it. I can not remember when or who have declared my banishment, yet I can always remember that I've survived against the slings and arrows alone.

All rewards hold their poisoned liquors within. Then why not choose our mode of death?

We arrive alone to the world and we make our egress in the same manner unless a twist of tragedy accosts those around us and offer a lofty offering. Holy orders claimed that any form of attachment causes us suffering at a greater scale if we simply reach out with wanting hands only to be rebuked with hot stinging hands and a crushing disappointment that can openly be lead by need. I understand this thought well in these moments and while a warm body slumbers near with faint breath and warm touch. Such need has always been fleeting and understanding that if a chosen subject of desire has been raised another would soon offer someone sickens of their proximity.

I do not look forward to the wanton needs of others fore I know certain that they will tired of me soon. A cross to bear or in my experience a cold walk like this one. Some would admonish that a rough gem must me excavated and worked to enjoy the true value of what has been found and yet I can not find anyone who recognize that potential hidden within and still hold the asperous stone with adoration and content. I have been the lover of many and the companion of countless, masqueraded others only to understand that I'm handed a role of who I should be rather of an improvisation of who I am. Many of these moments I've come to lose myself in the role and give each what they wanted and recreate myself as only dull clay could simply to be tossed among the rejects. Can the clay blame the potter for their inspiration and vision?

Should I remain malleable and willing to the hands of others or shall I simply allow the world to pull me away from such reaching and cold hands?

I stared into the grey ocean above an ashen sky as the roar and turmoil of my mind allowed me to know that I can never unpack my overnight back I carry constantly. I must always me on my way. It's not surprising how hands can change just as the rain can always hide the blue sky. And yet we ignore it all until the blue is hidden. Such a deceptive color. Blue hides with no substance whist grey exposes all with no shame.

How can I have feeling when I don't know if it's a feeling?
How can I feel something if I just don't know how to feel?
How can I have feelings when my feelings have always been denied?

How~John Lennon

I inhaled the remains of the smoke as I dropped the smoldering carcass into the wet sand and crushed the smoldering remains into oblivion. And know that my role is not at an end. I think it would be the last time I would ever play the lover's part. I'd hate to be typecast and to be written out of the story rather than take on a more familiar and complex role. Either way, I'd enjoy to give one last performance as I give the willing cast and audience what they came to see. Such fickle creatures, women. They can only understand an action of love if it costs me dignity, honor, and half of pound close to the heart. That and they yearn to live my role: desired by many, love by few, and abandoned by all.

And they call this romanticism. Lord Byron would have died of shame instead of fever.

How can I give love when I don't know what it is I'm giving?
How can I give love when I just don't know how to give?
How can I give love when love is something I ain't never had?
Oh no, oh no  

How~John Lennon

Hindsight is worth more than any weight in gold. It offers peace of mind and the mysteries of what was as what is. It gives motive and understanding their rightful place among us who search aimlessly for their meaning. It makes us doctors of not what ails us, but for those who suffer what we have survived in hopes of allowing them to bypass the cost we have already paid in their place. Blood sacrifice has already been paid at a cost that we carry in the depths of our eyes and the haunting voice that wakes us from our slumbers to reach out at phantoms of what was and will never be. A medicine worth more than life itself since the more it costs us in the end the more it can save in the beginning of a circular moment of imploding squares of time and integral space.

Perhaps that makes my time with you all the sweeter. Not only would I have to face the world tearing me from you but also the creeping thoughts what lies beneath me whilst I slumber. The voices that tell me to remain in four walls of my sanctuary cell of a trapped circle than the sunshine of the imploded square.

As one path ends another always opens.

"If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other.” Frankenstein~Mary Shelly