Dec 2018
By Darcy Prince
“The arc of my soul, infected my entire essence, not only my meaning has been found, it deepens into my existence, take me, smile for me now as I’m here for you.” I sighed, wiped off my tear, put out my smoke and got up.
Empting the final sip of my coffee into the kitchen sink. I sprayed myself with some fragrance. Feeling that I'm a world apart when I’m not in her presence. I dressed myself for the day, despite the stains on my clothes and my exit.
‘We’ll still have each other’, conveying to myself leaving the apartment block, to the filled out street of over packed roads and flooding sidewalks. I looked around and confirmed within myself what to do first. Knowing I need new books, to help jump start a new novel to write. I lit a smoke and walked to the markets first. The funny thing about entering middle age, one accepts one has never fully peaked, perhaps only their aesthetic beauty.
I sussed out the fruit, I smelt the herbs, handles red apples and placed what I wanted into the basket, I paid and thanked the clerk and left. Having a coffee. I run over what books I had and tried to focus what I should buy. I think had ready almost most victorian books and should cross over to more modern fiction. Not Hemingway though. Pynchon perhaps.
The complex sounds of the outside world. Gave a strong sense of over-populated life. Not only of natural life of the world, but of people too and their artificial inventions. I looked around and saw only phones and no conversations between tongues and lips. I giggled at my own irony. I’ve got no-one besides her and wondered how this neurotic romantic lead a life to this moment.
Especially where the narrative inside of my internal life made more sense than the reality I live.
I guess I’ve been engaging all to much of the problematic parts of my own nature.
‘Oh why is it all too easy to act on vice than it is to virtue?’ I asked myself.
Nevertheless, great people all started off as people first, common or not. I soaked in the bookstore and the smells of each page. Felt at home and upholding an intellectual dialog with the world around. I walked each asle, my eyes looked at each stem of the books side, stroked a couple as I walked, no Pynchon so-far, his books must be as elusive as him. And even though I'll never confess to another, writers and readers are too alike. The only difference that the search of their overwhelming introverted like quiet life, one wants to talk as the other wants to listen. I settle on the book ‘Heart of Darkness’. To aide my own horror I wouldn’t dare to speak of in the confessional box, a poet’s wet-dream to be a fly on the wall. I’ll be content if it’s been heard before, but whacked if I’m not the worst.
I stepped outside and the sun went from shining to glarring, the world enlarged and as everybody walked past, they looked at me, I lit a smoke and some yelling across the street caught my attention. Some junkies I rolled with in clean-time are back onit, cause I see they're fake. An image to resonate. To the contrary, everyone else, I see clearly are the same.
Harder to act on virtue in this world, is to be truly yourself and not feel so alone. When you see me holler at me, life is mystery, trust the poets flow to deny those who are the same into one’s life, is a no-no.
‘To society’s narrative, earthly success of gold that can’t be taken into the next life seems all too important than building one self to something of Holy worth before death. Let me spark it for you. The World is getting colder, lover, let me hold you.’ Just read one page of ‘Heart of Darkness’, Conrad just inspired to start a new novel. A romance after the end of times. I haven’t fully figured it out, the story of it that is.
Still, sprinkle of thoughts of her, stirs so much inside of me. Not feeling alone. And it pains me so much to be away from her. Lighting a smoke to help with this angst. Her, once a cherish search to find her, she’s so precious, still, I know it’s healthy to be away from here from time to time. Maybe the pain comes from suppressing such romantic-grandeur emotions about her in any moment. The experience of reality and colliding with such reams, a collage of combustions.left me wondering, what will burst first?
Checking the phone. She hasn’t messaged me.
A romance, a cult like - folk tale lived only in personal experience.
I put out my smoke and regained my composure. I continued to write. Like most things of my life, I stared strong and full of hope. I ended up writing a lot, but the feeling of starting a new novel fizzled.
Outside, I left my apartment block. I am international myth. I power walked through every other living being, I’m sure they've got traits to what makes them. I got to the cafe early-on. I read a book and drunk some tea. The war of what is needed and what is wanted, eternal. I wait anxiously. We’ve set up a time to see one another……………………….
“The arc of my soul, infected my entire essence, not only my meaning has been found, it deepens into my existence, take me, smile for me now as I’m here for you.” I sighed, wiped off my tear, put out my smoke and got up.
Empting the final sip of my coffee into the kitchen sink. I sprayed myself with some fragrance. Feeling that I'm a world apart when I’m not in her presence. I dressed myself for the day, despite the stains on my clothes and my exit.
‘We’ll still have each other’, conveying to myself leaving the apartment block, to the filled out street of over packed roads and flooding sidewalks. I looked around and confirmed within myself what to do first. Knowing I need new books, to help jump start a new novel to write. I lit a smoke and walked to the markets first. The funny thing about entering middle age, one accepts one has never fully peaked, perhaps only their aesthetic beauty.
I sussed out the fruit, I smelt the herbs, handles red apples and placed what I wanted into the basket, I paid and thanked the clerk and left. Having a coffee. I run over what books I had and tried to focus what I should buy. I think had ready almost most victorian books and should cross over to more modern fiction. Not Hemingway though. Pynchon perhaps.
The complex sounds of the outside world. Gave a strong sense of over-populated life. Not only of natural life of the world, but of people too and their artificial inventions. I looked around and saw only phones and no conversations between tongues and lips. I giggled at my own irony. I’ve got no-one besides her and wondered how this neurotic romantic lead a life to this moment.
Especially where the narrative inside of my internal life made more sense than the reality I live.
I guess I’ve been engaging all to much of the problematic parts of my own nature.
‘Oh why is it all too easy to act on vice than it is to virtue?’ I asked myself.
Nevertheless, great people all started off as people first, common or not. I soaked in the bookstore and the smells of each page. Felt at home and upholding an intellectual dialog with the world around. I walked each asle, my eyes looked at each stem of the books side, stroked a couple as I walked, no Pynchon so-far, his books must be as elusive as him. And even though I'll never confess to another, writers and readers are too alike. The only difference that the search of their overwhelming introverted like quiet life, one wants to talk as the other wants to listen. I settle on the book ‘Heart of Darkness’. To aide my own horror I wouldn’t dare to speak of in the confessional box, a poet’s wet-dream to be a fly on the wall. I’ll be content if it’s been heard before, but whacked if I’m not the worst.
I stepped outside and the sun went from shining to glarring, the world enlarged and as everybody walked past, they looked at me, I lit a smoke and some yelling across the street caught my attention. Some junkies I rolled with in clean-time are back onit, cause I see they're fake. An image to resonate. To the contrary, everyone else, I see clearly are the same.
Harder to act on virtue in this world, is to be truly yourself and not feel so alone. When you see me holler at me, life is mystery, trust the poets flow to deny those who are the same into one’s life, is a no-no.
‘To society’s narrative, earthly success of gold that can’t be taken into the next life seems all too important than building one self to something of Holy worth before death. Let me spark it for you. The World is getting colder, lover, let me hold you.’ Just read one page of ‘Heart of Darkness’, Conrad just inspired to start a new novel. A romance after the end of times. I haven’t fully figured it out, the story of it that is.
Still, sprinkle of thoughts of her, stirs so much inside of me. Not feeling alone. And it pains me so much to be away from her. Lighting a smoke to help with this angst. Her, once a cherish search to find her, she’s so precious, still, I know it’s healthy to be away from here from time to time. Maybe the pain comes from suppressing such romantic-grandeur emotions about her in any moment. The experience of reality and colliding with such reams, a collage of combustions.left me wondering, what will burst first?
Checking the phone. She hasn’t messaged me.
A romance, a cult like - folk tale lived only in personal experience.
I put out my smoke and regained my composure. I continued to write. Like most things of my life, I stared strong and full of hope. I ended up writing a lot, but the feeling of starting a new novel fizzled.
Outside, I left my apartment block. I am international myth. I power walked through every other living being, I’m sure they've got traits to what makes them. I got to the cafe early-on. I read a book and drunk some tea. The war of what is needed and what is wanted, eternal. I wait anxiously. We’ve set up a time to see one another……………………….
