An Inmaking 4

He walked along a street in a town, an age-old town, through the tears of his mother and heartacheful sighs of his father, so unconfidently, through seemingly the first certain and thought over minutes, grieved by the leaving of a place which is missed once left, and watched free-birds fly low above the buildings and walking by. A light brown bird. Got style. The feathers should be freed. Not every feather. One must not be allowed to fly freedomwards. Too unsophisticated. The fatherous air of yore makes them not old but all almost untouchably transparent. With the exception of the dark and other underneath colours. Chasing might lead to secularity. Missing’s the answer. Divesting. In order to see the very essence, the very externity. Magic’s vanished if disturbed. Beauty’s never earthy. Dr… Reverie makes one confined, like persperation. Ah nah, too girlish that.

He walked not fast at all as he had time. It rings a bell, aye, should do. Times never enough if one’s in hurry. No fuss – no life. Life’s not an engine. Tide-life never exhibits enough pebbles of being. Limitless existence had never amused him, he’d felt lost and meaningless. Eternity’s always too altruistic to live for. What’s the point of living having no time to do so… such a delirium. He stepped into a paddle and went into the Earth again.

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An Inmaking 3

An idle, caressingly-blackmailing look of a conquistadorian beastie imprisoned him and chained his eyes. They screamed for more. They did, he didn’t. There hardly was an initiative to disengage, to sever the bonds. An unrestricted inmate, a hostage of liberty. The ways are truly inscrutable, are they not?

A pearl in black. And… Crash! Hitting the shebed. Gone out of fashion and forsaken. Betrayed, not less invoking and unforgotten by romanticized adventures of rovers and artists for that, shape of a triangle.

In vain he attemted to x-ray the being, but it made his eye-lashes grow and widen, bringing chaos into the random order of his gyri. Small mindguards. They preserved the secret on the verge of discosure. Mysteries never irritate – the chance of solving them does.

Ah, had it been a dream! His alarm clock… The prospect of disappointment opressed him and dispirited, and so did the vista of letting the chance slip.

Nobody ever wishes to miss an opportunity. There’s always one one misses not to miss another one. He overed in his mind whether he could’ve been or could be something fine. For he was clever. And there’s only one million-miles step between cleverness and greatness. Great is the one who moves on staying, and transforms regrets into impulses that would spur him on. He should either regret or not.

Then birdwards he cast his eye. Oh his whoever it was blundering and lucky. A fraction of promised joy. He heard a mortally wounded squeak of an approaching tram. Oh boy, oh my!That’s what he fancied, that is who and why. A rare ray would linger and decline every now and then, reluctantly, condescendingly permitting him to view what he should-shouldn’t. The gentle breeze as well was blowing a hand.

An Inmaking 2

Breathing in an evening after-shower smell and danstepping to the tune of high heels, he possessed the body that let the life run and jump, being possessed by the spirit that spurred to surf the curls of exisdance. He wasn’t sad in a sad way to walk on and alone, looking at how people thought and didn’t, understood and mis’ed, half-listened-half-heard and pretended. Too much and too unnecessarily for things are not to be forgotten since they’ve taken root. Feelings aren’t exposed unless ye’re bald and brave the very tick. He was thinking and often knowing that what’d been ever so carefully crafted with fast oil of worries, memories, understatements and love echoing inside for good’s sake could never be erased. The talks around made that story rise anew – the story of a broken cup and a healed bone. Rise and shine, lie and die.

He used to look upon the world as a belletristic organism and hated and adored the bodyfull all. Change’s the worst enemy of complacency and he’s found his. Tie and tight.

On his way. Away from the familiar, marching a future to face. Catching every single gaze’n’glance, he seemed to believe their eyes were fixed on his fragile self-esteem. Seemed. It would bring him down for no more he had a slightest desire to settle the duspute with circumstances peacefully. There positively was unpredictable romance about externalities, but o! the day and o! the night packed with the foolish. They did waylay and they did hide and did extinguish. Not once it had occurred to him that some of them would have made almost perfect a scenery. Slim and slender, short and too short, catching the wind, delaying the fantasy, tattooed, backs and fronts, empty and drunken, good and fine, average, will-doish, and bad with all its polysemy.

Brrrr… Brrrr… Feeling vibration in his pocket he jerked into reflection on how he unloved hearing one’s voice without having the faintest conjecture of what a countenance of the interlocutor was like. Being fond of imagining intonations and voices he number-busied.

An Inmaking 1

Watching over his reflections in vain, complaisant, vexing and arousing shopwindows, indeavoring not to look unaffected, he was coming up and up with new and new points of destination. All for the fear of finishing of his. He’d found it ever such hard a task to bring anything to an end. In need of making sparkles. Of exaltation and incomprehension. Of making it worth a game and a handful of gold. Ex clamore meretricum nos teximus stragulum imperiale et vociferationes hostiles bibimus ex amphora non manufacta.

To write a life into his yet undead thoroughly in-world words was the very toil. Two phenomena symbiosed in his own self. Two greeds. Being disgracefully covetous of perception harmonized in such a touching manner with being gallantly avid for expression. A tiny part of the taken’s given. Taking the age in consideration and keeping it at a distance, as long as possible. Come clever to stay fool.

Diversecolour mosaic would do more flippantly and multiculturally, but austere restaurant-pubby setting backgrounded fairly, and he begrundged. Time perception malfunctioned, and the stillness prevailed. Captured and captioned, could have been exhibited. So, indeed, no otherwise. There was a life that could not been taken with him, that he could drink and. Belch. And tricky ice. Belch. Urvmp! Dried solid matter of the morning setting sails on watery bitter waves. Could pass in a winky blink of an eye, unfortunately, for the better. The walls, clearing the hurdles of the plaster, must have whispered. Voices of stone. Deep-deep, and deeper, please have mercy, no choice was left, there’s always one. The body looked like the future that’d turn into the past and pour upon his head heavily then. Anything missed? No, no, a reason is an instant and so are dreams and hopes. Enough he’s heard and seen to see he was a freeman in a prison. And it has not been stated yet – he truely was a prison-keeper. He even had the key. The lock did not exist.

August 2012