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Jan. 6, 2005 Dejection: A mysteriously dark cloud suspended as a halo of doomed giftedness in the realm of ubiquitous reflection tortures the over-dense cranium of an unfortunate self-consciousness. This being who thinks senses blackness in the light of bare existence; the black surroundings, by its character, affects a lethargy in the ill fated victim, for sleep is the temporary escape from the damned light of being which was never asked for. Whichever gods may be at play inside this interest provoking mind are neither the creators nor creatures of it, but absurdly floating on the side. Exhaustion comes as an effortless result of the all too much inwardly bent shape of thick- black contemplation. In this sick cerebral condition smothered in the depressed condition there is no time or space for cause: the winds of blame have no direction and thus cannot be classified as having motion at all. Wind is only wind if it directs and moves at once. So where does this dark feeling come from? It has no origin, but is merely the mother of creativity and piercing thoughts. As emotion is it legs and straps, it can fly and it can fall – that is the tragedy of thinking with the brows lifted high above the eyes for periods stretched too long. Angst: As the darkness eats away the flesh of strength and courage a certain fear of unknown, substance- lacking entity enters. Fear invades the streams of thought and blood at the speed of lightning. It never strikes, but heads ominously for the shaking over-self-conscious soul. It threatens and vibrates the thinned and pathetic mind, the mind that is now but a shadow of its own thought and a body of anxiety’s portal. Death seems to be coming with an axe, but never quite swings the executive arms to sever the unfortunate head from the unfortunate body. Existence races past this observer with formidable alacrity, and at the same time in overlapping space it solidifies and liquefies at once. Thought becomes an animal which grows teeth on teeth and swells for the sake of swelling, until it dies down a little and then gains momentum once again to form an absurd circle of internal and external horror. Calm: There is only calm in the dream of non-existence. ------------ About the author Werner Reyneke: I am a 23 year old passionate writer/poet in my spare time and a computer programmer by proffession. Visit my website to see my first published book. I live in South Africa and have been published in a local newspaper (some poems in Haiku form) for the first time in February 2000. I have also been selected for publication in a VoicesNet Anthology (visit www.Voicesnet.org) and a Poetry.com (ILP Publishers) anthology called "Eternal Portraits"). Visit my website at: http://myweb.absa.co.za/wreyneke/Mybook.htm Email: wreyneke@absamail.co.za Tell a friend about this site! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com and are not allowed to be posted on other websites. ARTICLE THIEVES WILL BE PROSECUTED! |
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