the darling buds

I could be kind about it, if I want to, and it doesn't make any difference to me either, whether or not what I really feel and the scruples dictating it may turn out all right in the end, all I wanted was to participate in that loud gathering of relentless delight and be gloriously drunk in that great eternal convenience, a sense of immortality.

What drowns me though about this is the thought of having to go through it only once, and in a limited amount of morning. I may be able to go through it or may face so many intrusions along the way, but it always gives me the splits that I have my own unnatural course, swimming mostly to those lesser known tongues in a mythological stage, something that would make providence all the more subterranean. The decaying process working profusely and becoming some sort of a spine that would forever dictate the recesses of the many infidelities culminating in the days ahead: graveyard shifts, wedding glasses and these wild unending reveries at night. It simply doesn't make any sense to think of something else. To seize that singular spark of madness, both noble and savage, or something in between, a spiritless gesture that has its own moral code and that conscience is just another drink.

But up until I tried to waste myself in that bliss that that spark in the machine decided to alter that Aegean course into some trifling stillness of being. And it really made me unaware of its burst, so young a hysteria that its players were merely acting self-consciously so as not to be labeled as victims of high psychology, and yes, including myself. If only for some cynical appraisal, and the thought of surviving at that last minute of parting that all of these commotions can be quite palatable again. And so when I was about to be reinstated in that new lease of life that I only had an acute idea of what lies between these two principal distances, an insoluble persisting ambition and an almost ungentlemanly cardinal sin, innocence. The latter started to mature itself only after my assimilation into the placidity of that consciousness. The pity of it all was that someone's got to let go of it, and eventually sacrifice that dim sputter of life, over and over again, in an almost unlikely rage of youthful love, and of which I tried to rest, like leaves upon a burning shade.