Adolescent09
12-31-2006, 12:03 AM
Here is a very vague/whimsical short essay I wrote for no particular reason in less than five minutes when I was 14. It's very vague and I try to use some imagery and although I believe it sort of falls flat any comments and suggestions will be well considered.
Today, the eve of New Years Eve is as prosaic and uneventful as the morrow will be or the day after it. My life consists of no exalting odyssey nor capricious tension. I have not family member, friend nor affiliate who may complement its drabness and this the situation is that I am victim to an ineffably, impalliative, malady which forever lingers and grows about my person, much like a venus flytrapper and an insect, the cause of which is my social seclusion and insatiable angst for friendship. Hence, this life prevails I am incapable of reaping the benefits of life, the fine security readily provided by its homonid populace and the redolence of its envoronmental nature which is to me not iridescent, but bland and colorless. The matter of this, your typical person may reason is a dire and imperative need for social mobility and custom, but chances and plausibility have made that perception thoughtless and superfluous. Can my neutral isolation really be a predicament? Is it not a sanction that permits me the universally stroven want for invulnerability against the rashness, ill-dispositioned, and invidious constituents of the world? With the accomodation of provisions and trifling sanitary necessities am I not capable of longevity? With, as the sacrosanct, man might profess, Providence at my side and hope pumping through my veins are not the spears and Maces of Satan and his unconscious abiders, impregnable against my heart of steal? But let chance have it that the positive forces are on my side, invigorated by initial hope, laying the ground upon which I walk before me, even then an impedment comes along, unmarked by devilry and wrongdoing. It is the imperceptible, unperceived edifice which renders the path to glory, uncrossable and although not improvised by humanly strength or celestial bound, is neither penetrable nor destructable.
Then it hits me square in the face. Ethereal shapes float vaguely about it, formulating arbitrary signs, dashes and slants until they are gone and all that is left are wisps of clouds woven in such a way so as to make discernable "Bored? Read a book."
Kudos to thee, my fair untainted angels, rescuers of the mind and soul; your words are marked by true brilliance.
Today, the eve of New Years Eve is as prosaic and uneventful as the morrow will be or the day after it. My life consists of no exalting odyssey nor capricious tension. I have not family member, friend nor affiliate who may complement its drabness and this the situation is that I am victim to an ineffably, impalliative, malady which forever lingers and grows about my person, much like a venus flytrapper and an insect, the cause of which is my social seclusion and insatiable angst for friendship. Hence, this life prevails I am incapable of reaping the benefits of life, the fine security readily provided by its homonid populace and the redolence of its envoronmental nature which is to me not iridescent, but bland and colorless. The matter of this, your typical person may reason is a dire and imperative need for social mobility and custom, but chances and plausibility have made that perception thoughtless and superfluous. Can my neutral isolation really be a predicament? Is it not a sanction that permits me the universally stroven want for invulnerability against the rashness, ill-dispositioned, and invidious constituents of the world? With the accomodation of provisions and trifling sanitary necessities am I not capable of longevity? With, as the sacrosanct, man might profess, Providence at my side and hope pumping through my veins are not the spears and Maces of Satan and his unconscious abiders, impregnable against my heart of steal? But let chance have it that the positive forces are on my side, invigorated by initial hope, laying the ground upon which I walk before me, even then an impedment comes along, unmarked by devilry and wrongdoing. It is the imperceptible, unperceived edifice which renders the path to glory, uncrossable and although not improvised by humanly strength or celestial bound, is neither penetrable nor destructable.
Then it hits me square in the face. Ethereal shapes float vaguely about it, formulating arbitrary signs, dashes and slants until they are gone and all that is left are wisps of clouds woven in such a way so as to make discernable "Bored? Read a book."
Kudos to thee, my fair untainted angels, rescuers of the mind and soul; your words are marked by true brilliance.