Deconstruction
He went through his paperwork, his eyes did not fail to see for what they are but his mind
refused to register the matter and its contents in the ordinary way as much as he would give credence to a beautiful and beckoning mirage in the scorching desert.
His mind went blank.
A white infinite void where in the furthest reaches a bold question mark dangled on a thin thread that struggled to keep the heavy weight at its end upright.
Ink and paper were reduced to their basic substance... oil and wood. From there it was an easy jump to denote the million years of decomposition and the rousing lark with which ancient dark woods sprouted from mulchy bronzed soil.
The plasticity of organic composition struck awe in his tired numb mind. And a touch of frisson, welcome like a quickening brew in the morning. Gone were the ghostly notion of his surrounding, but when he flicked his eyes for a brief moment to the window pan and saw what was reflected on the grimed glass, he was catapulted in a harsher reality that had lost and destroyed all sense of familiarity, which in all its drudgery delivered nonetheless an oasis of peace and comfort. It had now dissolved in a long forgo memory that resembled more a dream which effects after waking cloy til every grunt and moan has torn the last wisps.
He didn't bother to turn round and inspect the body, it was his for sure. On its way to deflate and crumble under the pressure of substances breaking away and the meddling of conqueror time.
He sat by, bemused, fiddling with a ballpoint pen and running an irrelevant check across his desk, capturing the last image of each object and the memories it released, while slowly everything reverted back to its source of pre-existence, beyond the spectres that gorge on its category and utilitarian concepts, while his own fixed point in space and time was slowly wiped off from the screen of events.
In the dark forest, high on a tree, a hairy hand broke a spiky twig and the same hand began to scratch the filth under his fingernails. He cut himself in the process, watched his blood stream in a small rivulet under his nails and merge with the dirt. Half languid, half lost in a battering of sour thoughts, he watched it run up its deviant course. His mind had turned into a blank canvas, his eyes stared cold, but then suddenly he stirred that twig into that motley thick emulsion and draw lines and circles on the palm of his hand. He had come to something, for the moment he failed to understand what these drawings were.
Sooner or later this white stretch of hideous, colourless emptiness would fade out in its own strangulating blossomed vacuous horror.
refused to register the matter and its contents in the ordinary way as much as he would give credence to a beautiful and beckoning mirage in the scorching desert.
His mind went blank.
A white infinite void where in the furthest reaches a bold question mark dangled on a thin thread that struggled to keep the heavy weight at its end upright.
Ink and paper were reduced to their basic substance... oil and wood. From there it was an easy jump to denote the million years of decomposition and the rousing lark with which ancient dark woods sprouted from mulchy bronzed soil.
The plasticity of organic composition struck awe in his tired numb mind. And a touch of frisson, welcome like a quickening brew in the morning. Gone were the ghostly notion of his surrounding, but when he flicked his eyes for a brief moment to the window pan and saw what was reflected on the grimed glass, he was catapulted in a harsher reality that had lost and destroyed all sense of familiarity, which in all its drudgery delivered nonetheless an oasis of peace and comfort. It had now dissolved in a long forgo memory that resembled more a dream which effects after waking cloy til every grunt and moan has torn the last wisps.
He didn't bother to turn round and inspect the body, it was his for sure. On its way to deflate and crumble under the pressure of substances breaking away and the meddling of conqueror time.
He sat by, bemused, fiddling with a ballpoint pen and running an irrelevant check across his desk, capturing the last image of each object and the memories it released, while slowly everything reverted back to its source of pre-existence, beyond the spectres that gorge on its category and utilitarian concepts, while his own fixed point in space and time was slowly wiped off from the screen of events.
In the dark forest, high on a tree, a hairy hand broke a spiky twig and the same hand began to scratch the filth under his fingernails. He cut himself in the process, watched his blood stream in a small rivulet under his nails and merge with the dirt. Half languid, half lost in a battering of sour thoughts, he watched it run up its deviant course. His mind had turned into a blank canvas, his eyes stared cold, but then suddenly he stirred that twig into that motley thick emulsion and draw lines and circles on the palm of his hand. He had come to something, for the moment he failed to understand what these drawings were.
Sooner or later this white stretch of hideous, colourless emptiness would fade out in its own strangulating blossomed vacuous horror.
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