Mfdoom
03-05-2010, 07:17 PM
Torment
By Kenny Vatché Avakian.
A veil of shadows settles in within these corridors rarely enlightened by the blurry blessing. Passing clouds drift violently, pushed by winds of the north, covering with darkened skin a croissant moon forever watching. The working class travel through this midday night, escaping the hourly paid slavery and falling upon a smoggy reality. Blackened souls linger on these gloomy paths of the Montreal suburbs, walking aimlessly and finding refuge within church books, illegal medicine and smoky delight. Pouring tears abrupt skilfully and cleanses the daily filth, giving to this whole scenery a movie-like conception.
I stand alone, beneath a layer of bricks, consuming an Asian delicacy while I contemplate this vivid imagery. Solitude is a stance often demoted in modern North American culture for it enables the mind to step aside from the common chatter and educate itself with observations of the living. Nevertheless, quite an understanding of our environment brings forth the usual stereotypical profiling, depicting my thought pattern as one of an individual consumed by loneliness and decimated by the lack of mentionable accomplishments. Such a blatant statement has always brought nothing more than hatred within me, cultivating my rage further more and engaging my soul into escaping this wretched world.
Setting aside my constant disapproval of our occidental mindset, I notice the hordes of sheep have now gained in proportion and once again take assault these unpardonable streets, disturbing the St-Catherine grounds with their tired footsteps and leftover cylindrical rolls still fuming. I always wait patiently for this five o’clock streaming of our worlds so called cultivated humanity as it often coincides with my obligated departure towards the brainwashing institution. Picking up my bag filled with Karl Marx’s thoughts and Fukuyama’s statements, I engage through a tenebrous breach created by an empty space between two restaurants. Voyaging through this valley of shadows, I located an industrial garbage disposal container on my right and decide to throw my now emptied Styrofoam vessel into its weekly emptied stomach. Doing so, I perceive a shaded silhouette situated near the end of my narrow path. At first glance it seemed to be an abandoned box made of cardboard forcefully depressed by thickened tears pouring violently. Advancing at small pace, the subject of my sudden curiosity took form rapidly. It was a man, sited calmly on the ground with his back towards the wall accompanied by second-rate spirits sold in local gas stations and drugstores. He stood there silent, concealed from the public’s eye, unfazed by the rigid climate and protected slightly by a patched up brown mantle and a discoloured fisherman’s hat. As I ventured through this darkened space given birth by paralleled walls, my footsteps eluded him of my presence as he slowly opened his tired eyes to glance at what disturbed his light-headed contemplation. Staring at me with the least of interest, I could see within his eyes a forgotten soul, searching for refuge within high percentage beverages while trying to calm a heated desire to end an existence shattered and frivolous. Evident scars on his upper cheek suggested the cruel past he had to partake, filled with insurmountable struggles, crippled by uncountable deceptions and forever shackled by an ill-fated destiny. Slightly leaning forward to distribute an unthinkable blessing, I search within my left pocket for a few remaining coins and drop near this old man’s reach, a bear and a golden queen. Now accelerating my pace, I decline eye contact as an allocator and continue onwards my set destination, leaving the scene of the crime with the mindset of a soothsayer. I chose such a common reaction for I believe silence is often the needed follower of a nice gesture as it produces the thought that pity was not the cause of its attribution within the designated receiver, or so I tell myself.
Turning left from the narrow path I had just exercised a misinterpreted benediction, I entered the world of the general while concealing my true nature. Revealing to my fellow inmates a shared misconception that we thrive in a world governed by the best fitted aiding the less fortunate, I entertain myself with this precisely engineered entity and satisfy a morbid fascination towards the unknown, quenching its thirst for knowledge with contemplations of the naive. Stepping upon the St-Denis Street, I continued my road towards the university and plugged my encephalon to a stream of never-ending rhythms. The background of choice, The Uprising, from Muse, referred by a good friend who finds within metallic strings a comfort beyond anybodies full understanding. Music is a powerful tool that can be used for multiple purposes and guides those who seek within its melodic symphonies a message for a better day. As far as I am concerned, I have always kept secret my constant admiration for the heartfelt and soothing cadence of jazzy tones. For some odd reason, I have discovered within these saddened notes a place of serenity that adjusts itself perfectly to my chain of thought. While undergoing this indication of my favourite musical type, the end of my introductory track had vanished without notice, and my soul began to slowly relax as the following tune began its melody. Coincidental as it may be, a delightful serenade of saxophone sneaked in through a pre-programmed shuffle and brought with its arrival a delightful reminisce. Entering my heart like a burst of emotions, an untamed imagination had been beautifully intertwined with an instrumental voice, giving birth within my whole, a mesmerising sensation. Sitting down for a moment on a wooden green bench situated near the intersection, I lit a cigarette and shut my eyes to ponder away to this imagery gently arising. Venturing calmly into this marvellous daydream, I found myself greeted by a familiar sight. The full moon had presented itself with a rare unnatural glow, caressing remarkably during its night flight, the cold winter veil common to this part of the region. A sight now brightened by a celestial shine, imprinted footprints could be seen on the snowy earth pointing towards an old fashioned establishment. Dim lights escaping through its front window softly illuminated this street resting in slumber, indicating with its presence that late hours often put to sleep those who have the privilege to dream off into another world. Heading towards the entrance, I stumbled across a few fliers fallen near the doorstep. Picking one up to satisfy my curiosity, it stated that a jazz band was performing tonight a newly released single from an upcoming album. As I put down the piece of paper on the outside edge of the window and gently turned the wooden knob to enter the premises, a fiery breeze of heat and smoke welcomed my arrival. Stepping prudently inside, I shacked off the remaining snowy flakes on my leather jacket, took a seat at the bar situated near the mid-left portion of the room and ordered myself a drink. Looking around while I waited for my order, I noticed two old men playing a card game on the far left corner of the room. Mounted up on burgundy coloured chairs, they sat alone by the window, surrounded by a couple of emptied table sets still holding filled-up ash trays and a few emptied beer mugs. Clothed with baseball caps, darkened carrot coloured jackets, muddied jeans and overused working boots, they stood there in silent contemplation, like two old friends having a drink after a long night of memories and past adventures. Observing quietly this scenery, I hadn’t noticed the musical background echoing in the room until the saxophonist began his melodic interpretation, eluding me with breathtaking notes his heartfelt performance. Slightly turning around to identify the source of this tune, I fell upon an artist playing a beautiful serenade accompanied by soothing piano keys. Now sipping on my scotch on the rocks, clichéd for late-hour drinking, I stared upon lonely souls gently vanishing to this caressing melody and entering silently onto a world of reminisce. As a saddened smile voyaged through those blurring out calmly, I took a similar path and followed loneliness, closing my eyes slowly to allocate to this jazzy rhythm, memories of a never-ending torment.
Like an unforgiving thunder collapsing its rage upon a world in despair and calamity, A horn from a passing bus awoken me from my peaceful release and presented to my soul this tainted reality.
By Kenny Vatché Avakian.
A veil of shadows settles in within these corridors rarely enlightened by the blurry blessing. Passing clouds drift violently, pushed by winds of the north, covering with darkened skin a croissant moon forever watching. The working class travel through this midday night, escaping the hourly paid slavery and falling upon a smoggy reality. Blackened souls linger on these gloomy paths of the Montreal suburbs, walking aimlessly and finding refuge within church books, illegal medicine and smoky delight. Pouring tears abrupt skilfully and cleanses the daily filth, giving to this whole scenery a movie-like conception.
I stand alone, beneath a layer of bricks, consuming an Asian delicacy while I contemplate this vivid imagery. Solitude is a stance often demoted in modern North American culture for it enables the mind to step aside from the common chatter and educate itself with observations of the living. Nevertheless, quite an understanding of our environment brings forth the usual stereotypical profiling, depicting my thought pattern as one of an individual consumed by loneliness and decimated by the lack of mentionable accomplishments. Such a blatant statement has always brought nothing more than hatred within me, cultivating my rage further more and engaging my soul into escaping this wretched world.
Setting aside my constant disapproval of our occidental mindset, I notice the hordes of sheep have now gained in proportion and once again take assault these unpardonable streets, disturbing the St-Catherine grounds with their tired footsteps and leftover cylindrical rolls still fuming. I always wait patiently for this five o’clock streaming of our worlds so called cultivated humanity as it often coincides with my obligated departure towards the brainwashing institution. Picking up my bag filled with Karl Marx’s thoughts and Fukuyama’s statements, I engage through a tenebrous breach created by an empty space between two restaurants. Voyaging through this valley of shadows, I located an industrial garbage disposal container on my right and decide to throw my now emptied Styrofoam vessel into its weekly emptied stomach. Doing so, I perceive a shaded silhouette situated near the end of my narrow path. At first glance it seemed to be an abandoned box made of cardboard forcefully depressed by thickened tears pouring violently. Advancing at small pace, the subject of my sudden curiosity took form rapidly. It was a man, sited calmly on the ground with his back towards the wall accompanied by second-rate spirits sold in local gas stations and drugstores. He stood there silent, concealed from the public’s eye, unfazed by the rigid climate and protected slightly by a patched up brown mantle and a discoloured fisherman’s hat. As I ventured through this darkened space given birth by paralleled walls, my footsteps eluded him of my presence as he slowly opened his tired eyes to glance at what disturbed his light-headed contemplation. Staring at me with the least of interest, I could see within his eyes a forgotten soul, searching for refuge within high percentage beverages while trying to calm a heated desire to end an existence shattered and frivolous. Evident scars on his upper cheek suggested the cruel past he had to partake, filled with insurmountable struggles, crippled by uncountable deceptions and forever shackled by an ill-fated destiny. Slightly leaning forward to distribute an unthinkable blessing, I search within my left pocket for a few remaining coins and drop near this old man’s reach, a bear and a golden queen. Now accelerating my pace, I decline eye contact as an allocator and continue onwards my set destination, leaving the scene of the crime with the mindset of a soothsayer. I chose such a common reaction for I believe silence is often the needed follower of a nice gesture as it produces the thought that pity was not the cause of its attribution within the designated receiver, or so I tell myself.
Turning left from the narrow path I had just exercised a misinterpreted benediction, I entered the world of the general while concealing my true nature. Revealing to my fellow inmates a shared misconception that we thrive in a world governed by the best fitted aiding the less fortunate, I entertain myself with this precisely engineered entity and satisfy a morbid fascination towards the unknown, quenching its thirst for knowledge with contemplations of the naive. Stepping upon the St-Denis Street, I continued my road towards the university and plugged my encephalon to a stream of never-ending rhythms. The background of choice, The Uprising, from Muse, referred by a good friend who finds within metallic strings a comfort beyond anybodies full understanding. Music is a powerful tool that can be used for multiple purposes and guides those who seek within its melodic symphonies a message for a better day. As far as I am concerned, I have always kept secret my constant admiration for the heartfelt and soothing cadence of jazzy tones. For some odd reason, I have discovered within these saddened notes a place of serenity that adjusts itself perfectly to my chain of thought. While undergoing this indication of my favourite musical type, the end of my introductory track had vanished without notice, and my soul began to slowly relax as the following tune began its melody. Coincidental as it may be, a delightful serenade of saxophone sneaked in through a pre-programmed shuffle and brought with its arrival a delightful reminisce. Entering my heart like a burst of emotions, an untamed imagination had been beautifully intertwined with an instrumental voice, giving birth within my whole, a mesmerising sensation. Sitting down for a moment on a wooden green bench situated near the intersection, I lit a cigarette and shut my eyes to ponder away to this imagery gently arising. Venturing calmly into this marvellous daydream, I found myself greeted by a familiar sight. The full moon had presented itself with a rare unnatural glow, caressing remarkably during its night flight, the cold winter veil common to this part of the region. A sight now brightened by a celestial shine, imprinted footprints could be seen on the snowy earth pointing towards an old fashioned establishment. Dim lights escaping through its front window softly illuminated this street resting in slumber, indicating with its presence that late hours often put to sleep those who have the privilege to dream off into another world. Heading towards the entrance, I stumbled across a few fliers fallen near the doorstep. Picking one up to satisfy my curiosity, it stated that a jazz band was performing tonight a newly released single from an upcoming album. As I put down the piece of paper on the outside edge of the window and gently turned the wooden knob to enter the premises, a fiery breeze of heat and smoke welcomed my arrival. Stepping prudently inside, I shacked off the remaining snowy flakes on my leather jacket, took a seat at the bar situated near the mid-left portion of the room and ordered myself a drink. Looking around while I waited for my order, I noticed two old men playing a card game on the far left corner of the room. Mounted up on burgundy coloured chairs, they sat alone by the window, surrounded by a couple of emptied table sets still holding filled-up ash trays and a few emptied beer mugs. Clothed with baseball caps, darkened carrot coloured jackets, muddied jeans and overused working boots, they stood there in silent contemplation, like two old friends having a drink after a long night of memories and past adventures. Observing quietly this scenery, I hadn’t noticed the musical background echoing in the room until the saxophonist began his melodic interpretation, eluding me with breathtaking notes his heartfelt performance. Slightly turning around to identify the source of this tune, I fell upon an artist playing a beautiful serenade accompanied by soothing piano keys. Now sipping on my scotch on the rocks, clichéd for late-hour drinking, I stared upon lonely souls gently vanishing to this caressing melody and entering silently onto a world of reminisce. As a saddened smile voyaged through those blurring out calmly, I took a similar path and followed loneliness, closing my eyes slowly to allocate to this jazzy rhythm, memories of a never-ending torment.
Like an unforgiving thunder collapsing its rage upon a world in despair and calamity, A horn from a passing bus awoken me from my peaceful release and presented to my soul this tainted reality.