Crumbs

It is the worst of times. Memory can be tricky and deceptive, but there is an attached gravitas that lets me know that my current condition is not only precarious but critical: I am desperately sick.

Health, money, labour, family are all slipping quickly through the cracks of time while my course of action or lack thereof tries to maintain the last bastion of sanity which is my ethos. My congruence.

I am beaten and forlorn. Those who might have woshed to see me decrepit, tired and weak might rejoice, for I am dimly flickering through life with the last impetus by which each child was born. I cannot fathom this condition for much longer, where will is nothing but a ghost of my broken projects.

As a last resort I naively lit a beacon to friends and family and others where my frailty is finally visible through transient crack in my character which may have been mistaken as nuisances or even personailty traits. It is but fair that the final joke of a polysemist like me is its final message to be misinterpreted, that is fair and yet despairingly ironic.

I cannot hold myself for long. Chunks of self control fall off like iceberg shards into an unnerving body of water. Which, unchanged, will notice nothing but shallow waves. May these be my belittling swan song.

As such, talents which require meditation, patience and carefulness are all gone and performed poorly. My judgement has been rendered useless by others (quite wisely, I must add) who kindly listen to my verborrheic heartless and flat opinion. I just hear myself as a warped echo wanting to quiet down and failing to do so in a time frame that spares my friends of having to amiably condescend me.

I wish that this vacuous render of a life would be of use to anyone, I have thought of my enemies, whom I always forget or ignore its numbers, those who would rejoice by simply attending my eroding and layered wreckage. But not even these would join me, for they have moved on to better, greater oppositions.

The pull in my chest (yes, it is not a death by oppresion rather than dilution) becomes wider each day, as if an invisible net would grow in my innards and worked itself through me, covering more tension, more craving, more width and cover. It find ever impossible area to stretch and never cover me entirely,,it would be too easy and homogeneous, too familiar. No, this enfeebling cast has yet to make the final miasma.

I have yet to crumble.

 

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