Title art by L.H. Grey
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Eminem “Rap God (Instrumental)”
Blessing or curse? The ability to see that which others don’t has a tendency to veer ominously towards the latter. We see dead people. And the thing we find really scary is that most of them are living. Before you all start hissing, we ain’t tripping. Neither are we bidding to become the villains of the piece here. With all due respect to the deceased, they do kind of dig their own graves. Which may explain why they look so frightfully drained all the time. It’s the same thing day after day, one perpetual mistake made again and again by misdirected meme machines as they gradually and tragically decay. Enslaved by their mortality, incapable of breaking the chain, they possess neither the capacity or audacity to entertain a change of pace. Like rats they race, chasing their frail tails, leaving their snail trails, prevailing only to woefully fail in their attempts not to grow stale. Hopefully they’ll work on their pale complexions before decompression sets in. Best foot forward and all that good shit. Not so easy however, when you’re undressed by your possession of two lefties.
Not that we’re suggesting things are life or death just yet. Ignorance is blissful, wishful thinking non compulsory. And harsh reality has been known to take a while to sink in. Self discovery isn’t for everyone and there is much to be said for the simple life. After all, that’s what we’re all ultimately striving for, right? We’d be lying if we said this charmed existence doesn’t appeal. But we’d rather not arrive at this point by deferring our birth right to feel. Vowing to indifference, insistent on consistently sucking up the carboniferous emissions of a world hot-wired to ignorance. Bitterness creeps in where it spots itself an opening and any untreated wounds are on their filthy knees for a groping. Hope floats away, followed closely by faith, and does anyone else find that something of a tragic waste? Pageant queens may be adept at smiling for the camera, but what of all the puking going on backstage as they glance in the mirror and nothing much looks back their way.
It’s a slap in a face numb from Novocaine. Not to mention downright deranged. As yours truly duly becomes estranged and that’s just bloody shameful. Like acorns we fall into a basket woven by our own hands. Best laid plans are shown up as sham scams and the only thing left to lose is approximately 21 grams. With death so becoming, we’re left with no choice but face up to life before it runs us any more ragged. Time to check in that hand luggage. Abstain from playing pack-horse and travel light for a change. Of course, we’ll have to surrender any aerosols but hear they’re bad for the environment at any rate. Besides, the rules clearly state that life is what we make it. And some of us plainly don’t possess the required tool set to fake it. Take it from greykeeper, we gave it our best shot for a good while there. Bitterness she crept and we were tested with less than due care. Thoroughly despairing and glaringly exposed to the elements like a pair of shocking pink elephants, it became most evident that we were headed full pelt towards severance.
Less than encouraging as our predicaments were, all this sin and punishment had caused something within to stir. Should we have deferred this intelligence and carried on directionless, then the tenuous links which bound us to affectedness would have been… severed… yes? Having weathered such fierce storms, seemed a dry-eyed shame not to find some final furlong form. And while it appeared we had our mettle detectors set to “find fuck all of any value”, there were heartening reverberations amongst all the panic stations. Persuasive were these tremors and shit clearly called for desperate measures. Whatever fate awaited this pair of red-eyed cellar dwellers was of precious little relevance in the greater scheme of things. As we were all about the exodus and this proved testament to our disinvestment from suspicion. Far too aroused were we by fluffed up thoughts of cosy coalition not to dispose of indecision and unload all inhibitions. Activate inner vision and trust we weren’t the only ones flicking the switch on.
“Shazam” was the collective cheer as our headlamps met dead centre and instantaneously locked in. No longer boxed in, our bleeding hearts advanced with every last intention of leaving everything to chance. Our next few labored breaths may very well have been our last, but we needed no disclaimer to proceed with this arrangement. Disengagement seemed distasteful so we engaged. Took one mighty leap of faith but they never fail, not really, and what better time to take the plunge than when your legs are growing weary? Thanks to blindest faith, we could finally see clearly, through Crystalline design no less and none too prematurely. Unshakable, unbreakable, not a single thing debatable as we made haste to our Vestibule and took shit pyrotechnical. Fanning the flames as we batted our ashen lashes for the slashes and the gashes, reenacting the scene from The Lady & The Tramp, only with eyeballs for meatballs. Creatures created equal, but not by a God who still hasn’t found time in his hectic schedule to sign off the good book’s sequel. Nope.
The universe can take a bow as our particles exchanged their vows way back at the big bang. Needless to say, we’ve got a theory about that. But that’s another playful rant for another day entirely as the here and now is where it’s at and we have more than made our peace with that. As right here, right now, is where we can make a difference. In this moment. With these Crystalline components of ours, we can take back the power once surrendered for our own good as we needed to feel weak as shit to speak of anything worth listening to. The true gospel got lost in translation way back at the birth of a nation. Its stagnation is our willingness to fall into formation, not to take that leap of faith as we’ve been placed under sedation. Wake up and smell the napalm as there ain’t no harm in trying. Sure beats dying inside with not a solitary tear in your eye. Reddest rivers run from greykeeper and we love that you can taste them. Seems a crying shame to waste them. Unthinkable not to drink them all down. With a dash of blind faith we can advance to glancing hearts now. So you tell us, is that a blessing or curse?
Richard Charles Stevens
Keeper of The Crimson Quill
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