Post by Pseudomuse on Nov 28, 2004 14:14:32 GMT -8
I am not sure if this belongs in prose, but i wrote it in class awhile ago and would like some input on it. It was writting using the daisy chain effect. ~ Pseudomuse
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The effect on me was palpable. Palpable in the way it affected my breathing. Breathing escaped my
lips with a pulsating heat against the white cold. Cold ebbed farther towards my heart constricting
crimson veins and plumb extremities. Extremities of the virus that had tenaciously foundered
hopes of thousands illuminating a few in haste. Haste, with which I stole with borrowed lies. Lies
like sludge, like Hexxus from Fern Gully sapping the white lantern of conceived pure hope. Hope
of thousands planned, curved, and perfected to some truth, a last song glory for fading, broken
hearts. Hearts beating with one pulse racing towards their demise where worms bury where a life
force once resided. Resided there in putrid dust where the lies, the deceits, the trashed HMO
condolences lay, that comforted a sliver of last resinant worry of the beyond. Beyond have I gone,
to somewhere I can’t be pressured, teased conspired against. Against all odds, my light has found
me, in a comforting silence and the only truth that need be accepted is of my own conviction.
Conviction of this, not so much a death of my existence but the piece de resistance, the
quintessence of their thoughts, opinions of me; I am death rotting and evil, soaked in hat and
deceit. Deceit is what they have for me as I contradict ‘home and family morals’ of the ‘they’. They
who have discovered their own perfect holiday from bare, bane objectivity of the caucus. Caucus
of scorns and construyed frowns protruding from money grimed effaces. Effaces of stone
attempting to pluralize punishment for inherent wrongs deserved. Deserved by what standards,
did I want this, hell no, did I bring this on myself because of ‘life choices’, what would those be?
anything that’s deviant from your entrenched belief? Beliefs that condone anything you don’t
understand, because humans inherently hate what they cant understand and they pass that on to
their children, and children’s children as the right path. Path that was chose by the original
partisans of this tradition. Tradition squandered with and morally backed with smokescreened
pulpits. Pulpits once regarded for vision now statues malignant shouting the “true” morality.
Morality sojourned into societies rules. Rules that a radical minority can subject and brainwash a
society careening them to be sheep, being that is what they do. Do you think I wanted this, this
sickness, do you think any of the thousands who have the disease chose this? This is a sickness
that destroys whole families and dreams of suburias. Suburias of conformality, the 50s American
Doctrine in full swing, that is where the money has gone. Gone are visions of two story houses
with three care garages, Sunday sports and PTA’s or even a nice couch or working refrigerator, for
this where our money goes: t false pretenses and fucked up HMO plans. Plans of futures and not
just of bitter day to day existence. Existence of knowledge that smiles, laughs and crys’ will be
limited. Limited are the times to remember and here I lie, only remembered in medical death
counts on the five o’clock news. News -- I have been downgraded to a number, my portrait thrown
in a rucksack. Rucksack full of faceless dead crammed near-abandons structures, for this is how I’ll
be remembered. Remembered for my disease not personality, actions or a life lived, but three years
of rigamortis creeping through this malleable, flaky skin.
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The effect on me was palpable. Palpable in the way it affected my breathing. Breathing escaped my
lips with a pulsating heat against the white cold. Cold ebbed farther towards my heart constricting
crimson veins and plumb extremities. Extremities of the virus that had tenaciously foundered
hopes of thousands illuminating a few in haste. Haste, with which I stole with borrowed lies. Lies
like sludge, like Hexxus from Fern Gully sapping the white lantern of conceived pure hope. Hope
of thousands planned, curved, and perfected to some truth, a last song glory for fading, broken
hearts. Hearts beating with one pulse racing towards their demise where worms bury where a life
force once resided. Resided there in putrid dust where the lies, the deceits, the trashed HMO
condolences lay, that comforted a sliver of last resinant worry of the beyond. Beyond have I gone,
to somewhere I can’t be pressured, teased conspired against. Against all odds, my light has found
me, in a comforting silence and the only truth that need be accepted is of my own conviction.
Conviction of this, not so much a death of my existence but the piece de resistance, the
quintessence of their thoughts, opinions of me; I am death rotting and evil, soaked in hat and
deceit. Deceit is what they have for me as I contradict ‘home and family morals’ of the ‘they’. They
who have discovered their own perfect holiday from bare, bane objectivity of the caucus. Caucus
of scorns and construyed frowns protruding from money grimed effaces. Effaces of stone
attempting to pluralize punishment for inherent wrongs deserved. Deserved by what standards,
did I want this, hell no, did I bring this on myself because of ‘life choices’, what would those be?
anything that’s deviant from your entrenched belief? Beliefs that condone anything you don’t
understand, because humans inherently hate what they cant understand and they pass that on to
their children, and children’s children as the right path. Path that was chose by the original
partisans of this tradition. Tradition squandered with and morally backed with smokescreened
pulpits. Pulpits once regarded for vision now statues malignant shouting the “true” morality.
Morality sojourned into societies rules. Rules that a radical minority can subject and brainwash a
society careening them to be sheep, being that is what they do. Do you think I wanted this, this
sickness, do you think any of the thousands who have the disease chose this? This is a sickness
that destroys whole families and dreams of suburias. Suburias of conformality, the 50s American
Doctrine in full swing, that is where the money has gone. Gone are visions of two story houses
with three care garages, Sunday sports and PTA’s or even a nice couch or working refrigerator, for
this where our money goes: t false pretenses and fucked up HMO plans. Plans of futures and not
just of bitter day to day existence. Existence of knowledge that smiles, laughs and crys’ will be
limited. Limited are the times to remember and here I lie, only remembered in medical death
counts on the five o’clock news. News -- I have been downgraded to a number, my portrait thrown
in a rucksack. Rucksack full of faceless dead crammed near-abandons structures, for this is how I’ll
be remembered. Remembered for my disease not personality, actions or a life lived, but three years
of rigamortis creeping through this malleable, flaky skin.