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<?null $title1 = "SleepWraith"; /* I lie asleep in my bed. A rare night of peaceful dreams in my head. My eyes open, my floor blurred. I try to raise my hands, wipe clear my vision, but I cannot move. Muscles refusing to obey thought, panic shatters up in me. I know what this is. I am not awake, but my senses penetrate the barrier of sleep. I know I can see both physical and spectral. I shift focus to peripheral vision, to peer above myself, and there it is. Looming over my helpless form, ever still, silent and staring. Ominous, this wraith does not move. Perhaps standing watch? It is waiting... waiting for something. Waiting for what? Waiting for me. The wraith is me, and I wake. */ &title2 = "The Consu Temple or 'Prose: Trash'"; /* I'm sitting on a garbage can at the mall. Remnants of old gum, blackened by sun and dirt, surround me. The sun itself is pushing down on me, forcing my eyes to a squint and drawing out beads of sweat. The fact that I'm wearing all black does not help. People come in and out of this structure, mingled in conversations that peruse their self-intensified, mundane dramas. No matter how insignificant, each person has a story. I wonder, as I sit here, what a true epic would do to these people. I am a silent king in a strange land. As the epitome of what society deems 'white trash' move all about me, I sit perched upon the throne of literal trash in observation. The black of my pants holds on to the sun's heat and cooks my legs. I am roasting, sitting here in submission to weather, time, and sight. I swim in the salt of perspiration. These people who move in and out about me recognize that I am a stranger to them, despite having lived my entire life here. I am the native stranger. They live meaningless lives, carouselling from one mundane day to the next. This, my insight on these people, justifies my inaction towards their unfriendly eyes, for I know I live my life my more adventurously. Each day brings a new drive, a fresh desire and the birth of a quest... but maybe I will leave the sun right now for the cool, processed air of this structure's interior anatomy. Indoor observation is a different beast altogether. People lock up their exterior expressions and wander impulse to impulse, silently. The peace is kept within these decorated walls. The design of this structure's epicenter, the food court, holds string resemblence to an ancient temple. A border of six pillars, three to a side, line the path to the altar. Close to me is a blue-tiled circle where said altar would lie. Going from it, away from the monetarily-invoked 'Shiatsu Chair' that I sit upon, is a patterned blue path -- a means of approaching the shrine. Oh, and yes, the chair I sit in. This soft, black chair faces the temple hall as if the throne, I am a king once more. Ah, but so I depart this structure, pondering its royal nature, and the abstracts of its subjects. Monday, the twentieth of June in the two-thousand and fifth year of horrible monothei. it is afternoon. An Afterthought To Templi Consu In pondering the significance to my observations, I have come to discover the truely dominant religion of our time: commerce. The temples made to the lord of America are malls. My observations can sttest to this. The people are loud and active, quite normal, on the outside of the temple, but when they enter, they fall hushed. their minds focus on commerce. Those who violate this practice and disrupt the temple are banished by temple guards in the form of 'mall security.' The chair I sat upon, thronelike and regal in its location, was indeed money-operated. For the price of one dollar, anyone can become the king of the temple for a moment. */ ?> -- Posted by sku11fukkr to ...Come The Wolves at 6/21/2005 03:06:00 PM |
