Automatic Writings

Goodness Gracious Me

Thunderous silence

Silence . . . silence . . .

Oftentimes I avoid it, trading it for the pleasures of music.

But what a sacrifice.

What a misstep.

Even now as I write this work, I merely date and do not title.

To shout at the wind as if to speak magic words: one seeks disappointment knowing they’re to be wisped away in the arid, predictable flurry.


To know it as friend rather than foe.

A desert it may be: one need only listen for audible hesitations; glimmerings beneath the sands, all too normally masked by noisy, anxious footsteps.

There’s a way to create magic that does not require hope, but mere common ingredients found on the periodic table.

To tout it as alchemy may be foolish indeed, born of the desire to create an aura ever-so-seemingly out of one’s own reach.

But I do not live in a fairy tale, and neither do you.

The impossible can be achieved but not in the realm of human vanity, that which at nature herself might scoff if she could.

What may shake one from the reverie I cannot say, but I feel it lies in the many shades of death and the willfulness to walk briskly towards them.

To dance with them on the bleeding edge of a bleeding knife, so that one may come to know joy in catching a glimpse of the Otherside.

To feel that which one will soon stop.

To enter dark catacombs with torch, poorly lit, for the pure thrill of it.

Because it’s all going to go away soon.

There is nothing to prepare for.

You’ve already been airdropped into the mighty jungle, behind enemy lines.

And if you listen closely you will hear nature thriving and striving, at war and peace with itself, vacillating between overflowing thunder and abyssal emptiness.

Where do you sit in all of this?

Or have you sealed yourself off in a climate-controlled bubble; an insipid glass tower.

Life is the most dangerous game and opting out won’t save you.

Opting out is a declaration of defeat: a declaration that can only be made too soon.

Opting out is to give away the glory of life, only to be left with that which is not.

Modern man is a sorry soul, unable to stop deceiving himself.

The war movies in his head have left him hopelessly shell-shocked, and below the trenches crawl all manners of virulent worms: chameleons that permeate his cerebrum, unable to be told apart.

Invisible, bloodsucking bastards, even as they nip at his nerves, setting off chains of events that leave man, head in his hands; wondering, wondering where it all went wrong.

For he has no silence.

It’s since become a foreign entity to him; a religious deity.

A luxury he cannot afford if he is to continue feeding and fertilizing his cranial worm farm.

Yes, the cure has become worse than the disease: no less than the desire to cure it.

Man is an amateur skiing down a ski hill so steep that his only hope is to ride it out.

If only this were his only choice.

If only there were none.

If only there weren’t multiple search and rescue teams all vying to erect steel barriers ahead of him.

Compassion: such a hopeful display.

Such a righteous virtue.

Such a convenient mask for the devil to wear; tall enough to hide his horns.

Goodness gracious me, I no longer want to be good.