Frost Past Midnight

My grasp on the abstract is like the music of Muse: portentous, histrionic, and willfully eccentric. I dwell and suffocate in the tangible conversations of reality, bask in the glow of my imagination, taste déjà vu daily, and savor the salty tears that escape from the fissures of my tri-colored eyes.

Time is a dictatorship; I am haunted by its tyranny. It offers only an impetus; a rush, a speed of things that may or may not be captured upon a small imprint of ilfrochrome. That photograph, however, is a falsehood; a trap—it is a mere memory, an arrested moment that occurred within a blink. One blink; a momentous flutter of an eyelid whose shutter instantly projects some sort of film upon its blank background. The eye; a sonorous movie theatre in and of itself created as the result of scopophilia. In one blink—lightning, the musty smell of a varnished past—I am haunted by the unimaginable.

There is a cadence within my chest, a quake. A never-ending quiver that engages my feet and implants my eyes in my surroundings. Lyrics race across my dilated pupils. My nose, itching with sensation, searches for time’s incessant scent. My internal clock races, my soul burns with the realizing envisage of a narrator; a third-person who was, and is, myself, standing, arms taut upon the crucifix of reality.

I feel their invading sight, their camera making what I would call a half-assed epiphany a spectacle, like that of the dizzying gyre onto Peter’s face in Finding Neverland. His face ashen, Peter’s rustic meditation violates the boundaries of what reasonable people would call “logic.”

However, like Wordsworth, romantics disillusion themselves with earth, instead persistently focusing on the powers of the human mind. I believe myself to be such an individual; a female Coleridge whose heightened personal experiences are the cause of her difficulties in separating dreams from reality, imagination from substantiality.

Though it may not be caused by a powdering of dusty film upon a window, those same particles of ambiguous disillusion are insufflated into my lungs; I breathe poetics, converting oxygen and nitrogen into a rhythmic phrase for which I may or may not find use. Possibilities and improbabilities flood through my capillaries as a macro-second of stunning silence precedes that of a cracking 334 meters per second cannonade of bombastic reverberations.

They have martyred me; reality, time. They have crucified my wickedly divine vitals but—unlike Muse—a mellifluous chant will not resurrect me or my undisclosed desires.


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