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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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what were you doing 2 hours ago?
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it's 3:25pm. what was i doing two hours ago? swapping jokes with a friend.
checking email. planning the location for the friday-afternoon-spree-of-
drunken-glee. friend just called. "_____'s dad died two hours ago." when
just this past weekend he was feeling fine. free of pain. great outlook on
the future et al. marvelous recovery from a bleeding ulcer. makes one
wonder if what was felt was truly said. maybe he just said he was fine to
shield his family from his pain. an attempt at a
self-fulfilling prophecy spoken too late.
the living can speculate whether or not the dead knew Death was near. but
did they really? i remember when my great-grandma died. my mom was already
at the hospital...they had called saying she wouldn't last the night. my
brother and i woke up to the phone ringing... "kids, a taxi is coming to
pick you up. great-grandma will probably die soon."
4 breaths a minute.
then 6. 7. she seemed to be coming back like she had those zillions of
times before. but sometimes zillions to a child may only be 8. 24 hours
later we thought she pulled another fast one. i gave her a kiss goodbye.
"i'll see you in the afternoon great-gramma." after sleeping a few hours
at home, the phone rang. we all rushed rush to it; mom got there first.
by her tone of voice it was evident that great-grandma was dead. we could
only speculate whether she wanted to die alone, to go through her final
pain alone, so the last picture of her on our minds would be of her
pleasantly sleeping, a faint smile on her face, and a touch of rose in her
chilling cheeks.
peace.
i decided on friday to make this an on going abstract. until it seems to
come into completion. on this manic day i am continuing this peace...my
escape from the echoing keystrokes resounding off the cubicle walls around
me.
escape.
it sometimes can be in the form of multiple personalities. what once may
have been considered a disorder now reflects everyday life on the net.
ironic ain't it? people impersonating who they think they might be under
their
masques.
til chance the night comes when the lightning strikes, the monitor dims, and
they are faced to gaze into their own eyes in the glass. and they see that
in years of living multiple personas they have managed to allow each masque
to bend, not crack. to form into one united person, embodying all aspects of
every persona. at this point they decide to do away with all the names of
their masques but one.
death to the rest.
when one such as demonika announces that palpable obscure will no longer lick
its palate, click its nails upon the keys, what is the proper eulogy? to
whom shall we send our condolences?
on this wedding day of days i remember a powerful energy, a lashing tongue,
nails not made for clicking, but for piercing through the keys to your
inner-most soul. gouging through the many masques within you inside out.
damanstian.
not seen nor heard from for years now. slipped away. silenced perhaps by
the new and improved masque95 or NT, or perhaps by itself. damanstian, my
damanstian, fuck's poster boy of rage, wherefore art thou now? the current
rage may fit the name, but truly your words were more
seething.
if such a powerful being is capable of committing itself to death, what must
come to raise it from the grave? or perhaps even its inner-most soul has
forgotten who it once was. in the words of the great Floyd, is it
too late?
even fuck has taken on a new face. once a critic of Life itself, is now but
a medium of rants and raves. few palpable pieces stay true to the past. the
unspoken ideal. the intellectual ramblings of fucked up souls who had more
to criticize than religion and relationships.
whatever happened to those?
a few years ago, less than a second to infinity, and not far off in the
memories of my heart and mind, the mom of a high school friend went in to the
hospital for some minor surgery in the abdominal region. wasn't kept
overnight...no reason to. she woke up for the wee-hours-of-the-morning-pee-
break common to most living beings, and died on the floor right outside the
bathroom door.
hemorage.
i can only wonder what she dreamt that night. was there a hint of
foreshadowing in her sleep? did she know then as she fell to the ground that
Death had followed her to the door, perhaps after pricking the exterior of
her bladder with her own internal blood to cause her rise? what did her
children think when they found her a few hours later, dead after their
peaceful sleep? and who would be to blame? chance the hospital foresaw
such event, would not fate have taken her anyway, seconds away from the
nurses' bell?
who can pay for loss of Life when Death itself can not pay suite?
if one could pay for Life, what would be the cost thereof?
for a couple bills one can purchase a sperm and egg.
but what would be the price
of the infinite souls
that such junction
could realize?
-=-=-
i must admit that after two zero zero i wondered if it would ever come to
three...but four? and with more actives than not? if it came to three i
vowed to myself to write again. and to write my first fuck. and i do have
1 submitted. 1 writing. 1 more written and more quickly blown to bits. if
this wasn't forecasted in four zero zero as a phwack to get my ass in gear,
it may never have come to completion. or as complete as it is currently
with a tbc on the end
to be finished in the next millini-era
maybe i am wrong.
maybe fuck is still the same. maybe nothing else has changed.
but me.
yt
tbc...
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