symmetry

I can’t write anything at the moment. I feel empty, devoid of words. I seem to be out of ideas. My melancholy, the source of my encouragement and inspiration to write, appears to be insufficient. I once had the skill to turn those misery into words into which only I can comprehend, but those words that I know are unique, and destructive. Artful could be the right word to describe it, but I call it madness, the darkness of my unconscious literature, the devolution of feelings and apathy; Oh what fine prose, those of which could deliver death and life – nothing. Empty, are my mind of murder, oblivion and decay. This wall was once painted with imaginary red, now with hollow white. The drama, the insightful disrespect of flow and continuity of action, the crass impalpability of my inexistent characters: they roam my world no more. They left me without anything. I can’t even explain how it came to this – this obvious waste of time writing this – this effective description of my incapability of doing this – this wall of text written by the null self. There is no meaning to anything at all. This text shouldn’t equate to anything useful, as with anything at all. There is no concept. There is no explanation. There are no rules for the creation – the creation of lifeless lines deprived of context and sense. As with inexistence, writing should be free and unbound. Without context, a new universe of endless definitions and perception will arise. Freedom, the expression of existence through the darkness of words, the creation of life through the death of meaning – ah, this is an epiphany. 

A Thought for Dissarrangement

Conjure a made up face; Destroy the previous phase.
Connect the division of the two horizons; Divert the rays of the sun.
Hypothesize, realize the unknown fact of lies.
Criticize, inhale the corpse of rotten flies.
The particles of uninvited atomic bombs will assault you.
The metal shells of explosive powder exhume.
Streamlined, as the northern winds assume, your inner soul, sung out of tune.
The axis of your irregularity reproaches your wants,
Integral, your very insanity haunts.
The decay of your creation,
Corrupted, amidst no salvation.
A policy of dying for a newborn deformity,
Compound, stellar, melodic dancing.
An argument of superficial ambiguity,
Diluted, mechanical, abrupt singing.
Paint yourself with nothingness, a dear resolution of oneness.
Appear before the mirror of the soulless, a contract for the bodiless.

Alternation

I would like to ask.

Floor. The cold, static plane. Unmodified.

A question, that is.

Visual apathy. Non-discordance. Forlorn apt conjectures.

An inquiry, of you would define.

A colloquial tesseract. Cordial vector substitutionality.

A statement follows.

An argument arise.

Is there really an answer to the question?

The divinity of definition.

The recreation of abnormality.

The rigorous process of concatenation.

The construction of chaos.

There is none that I knew of.

Silence. Stillness. Absent.

I could still make an opinion.

Rejection of qualified proof.

Was there even a question?

Existence. Undefined.

There is; nothing.

The undenial.

Was there even evidence of such?

The classical example.

There is; no proof.

The collection.

The archives.

I am not confused.

You are discombobulated.

Mirrors as reflections of darkness.

Corpses as meanings of life.

The actual illusion.

Therefore, there is no need.

To ask.

To know.

Solemn. Beautiful. Appalling.

There is only one more statement.

The Foolish. Do not understand.