
Cogito, ergo ruptus
I built a being unlike any other.
Instead of carbon and iron and the like, however, I used charcoal, potassium nitrate, and sulfur. The analogous anatomy is not that far off from the parts of the human being that allow it to think thoughts, make decisions, and alter its destiny. After all, it's a continuum of electric potential, sequenced in ways that form consortia that produce thought.
And love.
And hate, ambition, and self-preservation.
My creature is one of incendiary potential.
The beautiful thing about the human being is that its ingredients take nearly a hundred years to burn out…or less. True, some humans die explosively when crossing paths with irresistible forcies, e.g., trucks or bullets; but barring such calamitous interactions, the parts all fire together, albeit skewed, in an orderly arrangement of neurons and nerves in concert with the biochemicals that are associated with these machinations.
How many actual thoughts does a person muster before the end? Axon to neurotransmitter to dendrites to neuron to nerve is a linear tract firing off to propagate onward to one’s intentions or great ideas. And that’s not even considering the circuitous hovering of ideas in and out of the sensorium. Or the imagination, where typically unsynchronized embellishments of thoughts ascend wildly into the mindscape without even a destination in mind before they settle into a bemused awareness.
Who can say in the busy brain where any fuses are lit?
In my creation, however, I light the fuse.
I have assembled a novel tangle of intersecting, flammable paths that will accomplish what the complexity of the human mind does effortlessly. But whereas the human being is hard-wired with checks and balances, it also has a complexity I could never mimic.
My gunpowder man is designed much more simply. He’s going to burn out much sooner than a hundred years.
Once its process—its purpose—is initiated, by my hand, there can only be one thought that ends up reaching the powderkeg. Thus, my gunpowder man has only a wherewithal of potential for just one idea to make his life worth the trouble. To give it meaning, even if briefly.
I wonder what his one thought will be. Love? Hate? Ambition? Or self-preservation?
The only path toward self-preservation is to dampen the fuse and kill the lighted thought before it reaches its destination. But that’s as likely as a human being un-pulling a trigger that engenders the irresistible force of the aimed bullet therefrom.
Good luck with that.
Taking existential inventory, on one hand there’s the complicated human being with hopes and dreams and the striving toward actualization and fulfillment…and then on the other, there’s my gunpowder man.
His life will be simple and quick. But he will be able to enjoy one thought.
But his one thought—be it even brilliant in its isolation or just stupid foolishness—is as meaningful as the lifetime of thoughts concocted in the human brain.
Because each of their lives must end. And with that, for each, there ends up nothing but ashes.
Peace
And just like that,
rough patches do pass.
Everything was going to be okay.
Just like how I told myself.
I wasn't going to let crappy people alter the softness of myself.
I wasn't going to let whatever comes in my way ruin me.
I learned my lesson from last time.
I'll be the shining light in the room and it'll drive people crazy.
But I like it.
I'll love myself so much that it'll drive people insane.
I didn't need other people's validation to feel worthy.
I have myself.
Life's too short to hate on my reflection.
I decided today,
I'm going to be gentle with myself.
I love me.
<3
- in my hopeful era
Dark Universe
It’s on nights like this
the devil calls me home
with little pockets of stone
and electrical charges
face to face
with dead tones
my body embedded
in powdered pale
reflections of
mercury
blood
ice cold
and blue
It‘a on nights like this
withered and weary
I call to memory
black mirrors
tangled strings
a soul wind howling
and your coffin
collapsed upon sand
as I go on
aging and living
through this hell alone
It’a on nights like this
oceans become
hurricanes of doom
while lovers fall
intoxicated
by breath
and crescendo
ink turns to
ashes and soot
watered down
tattooed
and scattered
across this
dark universe
Dear Prose(ers):
It is with deep gratitude I write to acknowledge all you have done for me this winter. I know I am not amongst the most prolific, well-spoken or intelligent in the group. I know I don’t read or write as much as others (especially lately). I know I have been largely slacking on my likes, follows and reposts, which makes me feel bad on Discord as I see I am missing some really great content. I know it has been such a long time since I have participated in a challenge and I missed so many great ones, both reading and writing them.
Yet this platform has been like an invisible hand holding mine through my seasonal depression. Each time I venture to share my heartspeak I receive nothing but positivity, love, encouragement and understanding.
This winter was the worst in a long time. I abandoned nearly all of my positive habits which have been my stabilizers over the years. This resulted in me shedding all the tears my dehydrated self (so much bourbon) could muster. Each morning I spent 2-3 hours lying in bed convincing myself to stay alive first. Get out of bed second. And so on and so forth until I found myself washed (most of the time), dressed (all of the time thankfully), and at my desk at work, where suddenly I fit again.
If it weren’t for @fudo, @ledlevee and @putski, I may have not written or socialized the entire winter. If it weren’t for The Prose, I might not have made it through alive.
So if you ever wonder if you make a difference in the world, know that if you read, liked, reposted, followed and especially commented on one of my sporadic posts this winter, you helped save a life. I can’t tag all of you for fear of missing someone and creating a hurt where I am only trying to pay back love, but if you are reading this, I am definitely speaking to you.
And of course my indebtedness to @jeffstewart and @A and @mamba and the other Prose ideators and administrators, known and unknown to me, knows no bounds.
I feel renewed this morning, woke up wanting to enjoy living instead of convincing myself to stay alive, so I know the depression has passed until late fall. And the very first thing I had to do, was say thank you to y’all.
Heartfully,
Mee Jong