fiction

and so i came to a place where i felt life had nothing left for me. i felt i could see my world for what it really was. a colourless maze, a lusterless artifice. i would meet with my oldest friends and have nothing left to say. my current love affair was a hollow tree and so they would all be. even the music i loved, which long ago had inspired me to emulate, reinvigorate in my image, seemed revealed for what it was, complicated manipulations of the status quo in the name of newness, in the name of the legendary soul. and the writings i had for so long diffused and centrifuged around my head, seemed to me now a varied set of constructed, convoluted rules yielding advanced word-play and aesthetic stale-mates. even my heroes now were rendered in their true forms, collections of affectations and acquired mysteries, no greater than a thousand other personalities, but with greater stylistic flair and presentation. and yet i still had my spirituality. what was left was a feeling that in nature, there was constant unequivocal, immeasurable beauty. whatever moments of genuine human beauty I had previously experienced, were rendered merely a matter of chemicals, advanced electronics, for now unknown and perhaps magical, but bound to mapping in the future.