there's no fucking vision, there's no voice, it's all black...
He had banished the shining face of god and replaced it with the shining face of revolt - believing that with enough tearing and tearing and building and rebuilding he would be able to find some degree of salvation.
time passes... time passes... time passed...
After a while this dynamic man of action was shattered - too many months of futility had dulled his mind. He'd misspent all of his energy trying to howl down the wind, trying to change the unchangeable.
The tide crept up on him slowly and by the time he had a chance to snap out of his lethargy, it was too late, he'd drowned.
He retreated into a blue blanket that stunk of crabs and filth and shit. It was strangely comforting - mostly because it allowed him to deceive himself.
Self-deception is always the greatest anesthetic.
Soon, there was no will to fuel the noise, and the isms and the schisms became harmonious + smooth. It wasn't so bad, you know?
The tide, however, often leaves as quickly as it comes, and before he knew it he found himself bereft of its presence, paradoxically suffocating, and alone.
Well, he was always alone, but this time he had no place to hide, and all he could do was wait for that blessed tide to creep back in.
And so it went, back and forth, between redemption and damnation, with the world alternating between being a magnet and a drain.
the whole world's a saviour - who could ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever ask for more?
And in a certain laboratory in Banksia a roof finally collapsed - how quickly the spiders became rats in the ensuing deluge.
Written on Saturday, 18 December 2004