A person can be internally consistent and absurd at the same time, like a comedy skit. Our imagined summaries make us lifelike, or so I heard on television. Don’t mind me, I’m just looking for permission, filled with suppositions about self-preservation through simple perseverance and tricky transposition mixed in blender-wise with kind attentions to the scratches on the table and the streaks on the glass as though I really believe I’d dissolve my fears if I could only embrace the imperfections of my style. Style—ha! When I set out to write I expected each stanza would begin with an abstract observation followed by a loosely corresponding question but here we are in the middle of yet another goddamn paragraph because I don’t stick with anything and slip on Freudians—a fact which you, conscience, always somehow saw as something akin to sin. In the end it was a party that pulled Styron out of his second round of depression, a fucking party, can you believe it? You could tread upon enlightenment and suggest all human achievement amounts to an elaborate mating game, though some pleasures, you’d surely concede, are incrementally higher than others, while others still are far.
Sometimes, for instance, you sit bare before a screen, canvas, or window looking for a compelling way to resist invisibility and silence through the publicizing of one’s life’s truths—a foolish pursuit, no doubt, when you’re so overwhelmed by unreality that you cover your face and refer to yourself in the second person because distance and non-knowledge appear to offer the only way through. But who knows the unwritten rules till we write them and then reject the limitations of language, opting for the ubiquitous lure of second-rate visuals of ritualized identity since it sometimes seems skin is all the world cares to acknowledge in the first place.
M. 
Oh golly. Yes!
I’m scared I stepped on my enlightenment and squished it dead! And now I’m screwed.
Barefoot and staring out the fucking window like clumsy fool who trod on enlightenment.
I wonder if that’s why I keep feeling like a ghost trying to get someones attention.
What was it you said about publicizing and invisibility…?
Sorry.
Your words just got in my head and….did stuff….
I’m not making sense.
Mischa is a good name. I like Mischa.
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Why thank you, dear ghost, you at least have my attention, enlightened or no (I suspect the former). I, too, think Mischa is a good name, but I am not impartial. It’s a good name for the kinds of words that get stuck in one’s head and do stuff. Publicizing and invisibility? I think I was thinking of publicizing invisibility and thus becoming more visible thereby.
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You said a thing to me! Yay! You can see us and we can see you. We’re not a ghostses after all. Teehee….
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Visibility achieved, then. The more eyes the better.
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Love the juxtaposistion of the long paragraph followed by the short, short sentence.
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Thank you very much. And thank you, as always, for reading.
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I like when thoughts become things. It’s like turning your brain inside out and scrubbing it. Hoping you’ll always find inspiration in yourself.
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I like that too. And I like your description very much—it’s just like that, you’re quite right. Thank you, and thank you for reading.
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don’t know how to describe my experience of reading this. can’t say ‘beautiful’.. it’s too overused, rather misused. but it sure did strike a chord or two.. what a pity people hardly read anymore. is your composition trying to suggest that society has borne certain definitions for what is beautiful and what is not and therefore, whatever is not beautiful is invisible to society?
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Thank you so much for the compliment, and for reading. I’m so glad to know that my work provided an experience, no matter it might be described. And yes, I was suggesting that whatever falls outside the prevailing conceptions of the beautiful does tend to reside in invisibility, and also that these conceptions typically paper over the inner world of the individual to such an extent that all we’re left with are appearances masquerading as depth and meaning.
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