The Separation

May, as a harbinger of some seasonal difference, caught me unawares this year. Whereas I am accustomed to the singular chromaticism that month so abruptly does impose on the wand’ring eye, and there is little to startle me in such natural tendency, for some unutterable reason my humors suffered a severe disquiet at the outset of spring. The more thought I lend its occurrence, the more it only works to baffle me. Perhaps there is a relationship between temperament and temperature, or attitude and surroundings; perhaps such a relationship effected that disquiet. However, the mode of it seems altogether foreign to physiognomy, and wherever any physical explanation enters, doubt follows along, grasping at its coattails and begging alms. No; apparently the tangible or visible have no business with whatever it be that has taken my person captive. All that remains would be the metaphysical, the spiritual, the real. And of course, such a state were quite difficult to join with rumination; seeing as the two planes are separate (that of the mind versus that of the spirit), so consequently am I hard-pressed to arrive at any reasonable conclusion as to the origins of my spiritual turmoil through mental toil.
Endless like the upper sea, my thoughts wander beneath the green canopy, over dale and knoll, under rock and lea, throughout the western world of intellect and the eastern world of emotion; the southern world of ice and the northern world of fire embrace my heights in turn. You are the covering that envelops me, the cloud in which I sleep of a lonely weekend, the iambic regularity I feel flying within my veins like some anabiotic wing. This monstrously gorgeous globe of men and mistakes makes and mends the rends and tears, tears and bends of eyes that quake and take and send their flow from a gorgeously monstrous kiss. Palindromes of attitude and verbiage, vectors’ reflections, commas’ repetition seemingly consistent in its madness – fragments without a subject or parent, thoughts wandering like the orphan eyes, never startled — these are my arsenal. I attempt to lay seige to a problem, a confusion, by assaulting it gradually by force of words and sentences hidden in the mind. The synapses are the wings of Rumor, pounding their impulses like the pattering feet of schoolchildren spreading a tiny innocuous lie – the little falsity that marks an entrance to adolescence like a broken neon sign. Turned hands and whispered offences attack the unfortunate outcast walking alone across the grounds, even as my thoughts attack their charge (what has caused this chaos?).
She drops her books as she stumbles over a sprinkler head, who had rebelliously remained projected after its office was executed earlier that morning. The other children snicker, some careless enough to forget the purpose of a hand over the mouth to hide the evil pleasure of mockery. No one goes to help her up, for the boys have broken into a fight over the pretty girl with the azure bow and the pleated skirt; the faculty are thus occupied, though more in placing bets toward the victor of the scuffle than toward ending its noisome noise. She rises by her own strength, which is great amidst the pathetic versions of humanity surrounding her, and gathers her things unto her breast as her legs continue taking her to where her eyes gaze unblinking. The redheaded boy’s nose begins to bleed before he even hits the ground, and the outcast rounds a sagging corner of gray mass without looking back. The young man lifts a victor’s scarlet fist to the sky amidst the cheers of his friends – now his subjects – and turns his eye to where the azure bow used to bob across the horizon; but she has gone to the theatre with that boy whose voice rattles the windows of empty cottages in springtime. She has gone to see the world from the older eyes, the eyes of a woman. She has sought some other growth that he does not yet comprehend. The faculty look on and shake their heads; this is the path they took, and these are the hemorrhages they continually must tend.
So are the rhymes set apart like panaceas from poisons; so are the meter and stress, like hateful brothers in the bitterest rivalry, conjoined without nature’s aid. And as it all ends, I know two things: first, that there is little point in mentioning the second thing I know. And as it all wails in a language I have never wanted to hear, – but have always had to explain, – I am stuck once more placing words in a strange order because I know that will force the experts to analyze it more deeply. So go ahead, ye experts. Take this wound in confusion, and conform it to your plan. Make it heal. May it heal.

The Separation

candidenuts

Little Rock, United States

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