Psychosis of the South

I suppose it really is absurd to assume that one is anymore than a single voice in an otherwise sterile hallway.

Consciousness occurs at some point along the conveyor belt and fades out again at some later point. The interim is haunted by the echo of one’s voice, a far off whisper and a sense of pointlessness. No-one can pause the conveyor belt. It’ll continue to sweep the body and soul through the cycle. There is no way to avoid fate.

How can the fire held in hand be shared with another when the walls are too thick to feel anything beyond?

It seems such a waste to have fought so vigorously to obtain what had been branded as lacking and then to hold such efforts up to barren and unamused walls. Effort spent, the belt keeps moving, things acquired and nothing changed, but for the fleeting time remaining; that is the lament and grotesque joke.

When the echo is more terrifying than the original, when the support is merely one’s own bones, where is the lesson, purpose or improvement in the conscious mind?

An infant cannot teach itself advanced mathematics, question the universe with eloquence and discerned tongue or develop meaning in itself without guidance and leadership. Indeed, being labelled, locked up and assumed a condemned soul tends to induce a stagnation of oneself. This is in play at large!

And yet the whisper is louder yet and louder even still.

For my voice is sore and lost, the belt is of wonderful, unworldly properties; too silent to be heard over one’s breath, and the hallway is as complete as the universe itself. There is but the whisper. It comes in tongues long passed, in song yet unwritten and in a tone too subtle for the ear. It is like the smell of food to a starving man. It is a tease of more. It is fruitless.