Prolix Logorrhea

December 7, 2008

Dear book.
I write to you out of insatiable desperation, that of which I’ve never met before. Ungreeted until now, of this coarse fixation. Stumbled my mind, and body. My reaction tossed into multiple levels of confusion and indefinite perplexity. I cannot stress enough the panic and unknowing I’ve been confronted with. Each step, each day, wielding dark and unopened results to doors never scathed before. Each handle turning with the sound of untouched perfection. Each one, yielding places never before ventured. Uncharted my world delves and thrives. My eyes rip open the façade of what was. I tell them not to, but they do not listen to me. Stubborn fools they are, they pierce through the world I want, and reveal to me the world in which I am. Such knowledge is never desirable, and yet we are all confronted with it. I try to clear my mind, so hard I try. It moves, faster than for its own good, and surpasses the levels at which operation is common. It speeds down the highways of intellectualism into worlds with dry dirt roads, countries uncharted, unmapped, uncivilized. It grows and thrives on the ideas that are thrust upon me, and the possibilities they hold. Fighting vigorously I try to bridle its potential. On occasion I do, and I’m fascinated with what can be spewed out of this esoteric faucet of imagination and intelligence. It controls me. I’m subject to its incredible prowess. Rebel I dare not, as the favor would only work against me. Subject to its arcane and dragooned control. It feigns what my eyes see, and what my ears hear. My world manipulated and tainted through my own wild mind. It holds such beautiful potential, but rare to occasion, am I ever able to harness it, and project it onto paper, into words, into motion, into touch, into an idea. Such a large cloud reigns over me with such gorgeous power, unwilling to allow me to admire it. Unwilling as it is to yield to me its great results, all too often is it far too proud to grant me its possible benefits, but curiously enough, its vain powers of flexing its superiority are bequeathed daily. I defy and neglect my body for the comfort of my mind. Unleashing its potential I would sacrifice anything. All too often I sacrifice the salient bed of dreams to allow my mind to flourish, to thrive in the estranged hours of the night, betwixt humanity and insanity. My hands are to unsteady right now to write, and so the only way to convey my temporary acumen of this psyche is to type. To type, and type, and type. My fingertips shaking, redolent of fear. I write with apprehension of judgment. Not of others, I care not of what they think, but of it. The affinity I have purchased with the entity of my mind. It mocks me-constantly riddling my day with inhumane efforts to belittle my inadequate body, unable to catch up to the assiduous and gracious speeds, finessed only by few. In solitude I sit, trying to comprehend these esoteric riddles that torture my soul. It echoes in my head, tearing apart my being and structure to attain only the most simple of aspects directed by my own brain. This beautiful intricacy that murders my being and rots my ground every day. It drives me to be structure-less. To just accept and believe, regardless of all other roots. It thrusts me onto a level above all else, and to continue I can do nothing but agree, and silently acquiesce to its simple request. Please, torture me no more. I beg of you. With all that I am, the only part of me I have left that you have not consumed by your insatiable drive to conquer and enlighten. My only remaining being. With everything that I am, I beg on my knees, genuflecting to you the only request I have ever made. I beg for your leave. I beg for you to inhabit a more deserving soul. I beg that you leave me in the dark, ignorant and blissful.

The author's comments:
I wrote this when I was solely overwhlemed by the prominant motion of insanity. I couldn't really explain the catharsis I was experiencing and so the only way to convey my craziness was to write. Whether it's esoteric or entirely relatable doesn't really matter. It was raw. I felt that whether it was lost with the prolixity didn't matter and it was written for the sole purpose of writing. And not for understanding.

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