thee who withers to obtain senility
invites tear, cries out, the light, the shame.
if to squeeze in what may bleed, believe,
but will observe, subserve, and face rule to deliver.
know not in what falls beyond sagacity,
a propensity which mollifies pleasure, eternal.
behold discovery and evanescence, again,
appurtenant… truth and pain.
the sustenance that’s breath, blithe, not broached,
survives then, and, within. plunging toward discord
and insidious entrapment, assuaged by atavistic
instinct, cordiality, and a strange sense of reverie.
IMPERILED BY INIQUITY.
PLAGUED BY PERPLEXITY.
MANACLED BY TYRANNY.
FORTIFIED BY POSTERITY.
WORLD ENGLISH DICTIONARY
STARE vb : to look or gaze fixedly, often with hostility or rudeness.
“Don’t stare please, it’s extremely impolite”, she snarled. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry madam. I’ve told her countless times but please understand my child’s intentions are nothing untoward… in fact quite the contrary. It is, actually, a sense of curiosity that she possesses; a carnal interest imbued by the innumerable number of visual appearances exhibited throughout existence in this – anything but banal – humansphere of ours, is all” replied the primary care-giver, in haste, and defence.
Confused by this strangers sudden moroseness and the now piqued expression of a loved one, the child’s stare quickly ebbs from its naturally desired gaze and shifts into an act of uncontrollable quagmire – darting back and forth between the now darkened scene of violation and a solemn strand of hair that had somehow wedged itself upside the plastic window pane.
Why, I ask. What invokes this feeling of discomfort, this awkward disposition among our being, when there are in fact other regions where we – humans – have nurtured this very act to now reap the benefits of a rather complex, yet brilliant, method of non-verbal communication.
Given the opportunity – say hidden behind a pair of dark shades for example – generally, we do like to stare. It’s enjoyable and quite edifying to inspect and discover. Yet, remove the mask, and we’re immediately faced with a situation of confrontation, a moment of uncertainty that we’re really not sure how to handle. Which is incredibly strange really. For a species of such intelligence, why have a majority not yet been able to take command of this form of communication. In fact the ability to comfortably engage in this behaviour actually appears to be growing weaker.
Of course there are many types of stare-viations amidst this language – like the good and the evil for example; two forms that often require no translation and actually give merit to its obvious communicative powers. However, it seems it is with the many in between that the problematic mystery still remains. Particularly with those that do require the recipient a need to wonder the translation, alone. “Umm, why does this guy keep staring at me?” “Is it curiosity, amorous, pejorative, admiration, attraction, contempt, or perhaps just a case of intense concentration and no intended interaction at all?” “Shit, this is making me nervous.” would be a common script.
So what creates this inability to maintain comfort under a watchful eye? Is it the result of an antediluvian societal formula we’ve grown to trust, perhaps, or does it in fact pertain to an individual’s general state of equilibrium, cynicism, pessimism or painful insecurities. Which again, could all be attributed to the former. Or maybe we’re just naturally raised as spies… furtively pillaging visual stimulant from an unsuspecting candidate – an entertaining experience that’s often tarnished by inoculated feelings of guilt and intrusion anyway.
The reality is that society teaches our young a mentality and practice of not to stare and that this action is rude, which in turn renders it quite a difficult act to develop and perform naturally. Yet, in direct contrary to this, it also instills on us the ‘please maintain eye contact’ requirement preferred during ‘adult’ interactions – esp. in business/employment. Which, consequently, could in fact prove vital for determining the path to ones future. A difficult contradiction of inculcated mannerisms we’re made to overcome, I guess.
In conclusion to an inconclusive splash of thought, I do wonder if an archaic, yet simple, solution to mitigate this ‘uncertainty’ could be to just offer a smile.
It’s both amiable and also a fair exchange for the taking of visual goods, I would have thought.
Vehement hostility, confined, define, corrosive conception. It’s too early.
That dream, that force, that bedevilling… flatulence.
A deluge of lonesome nostalgia, forthcoming.
They lay. Speaking in multitudes, impassively.
Nonchalant, by mannerism.
Adoration, not merely to appease.
Equated by existence.
Confused. Soliloquising – fictitiously, and some.
“Urban_dad!” “Urban_dad!” Unimpressionable child one and two wail as they stumble through the excessively large doorway bringing the ‘lounge’ into a room of strikingly similar portion, and character.
The Unimpressionable children, appearing to have saved the bulk of their energy for the emphatic entry performance, vomit half a kilo of (cement) sand, three filler words, and an impractical quantity of in-consumable leisure items onto the divine parquetry – of European Oak, as it were.
Collective murmurs of “Sssssa” vehemently echo through the joists below whilst distant sounds of cushions in an empty cafeteria seep above.
The tantrumatic production by the Unimpressionable children appears to have had the desired effect on the, inserted epithet, lurking below; however, Urban dad, who perhaps earlier mistook a vitamin C for a zany, sat still, and cross legged, mesmerized by his glowing lap.
Subsequent to prior though, and after a slight delay in reaction, Urban dad’s militant brow – as if the only communicative feature available for receptionist duties at the time – stands at attention to greet the Unimpressionable children.
“How was your day at the beach kids?” he… enquires? “Or perhaps working on a robot impersonation for a forthcoming audition” the writer implants.
Most unimpressed at this response indeed, Unimpressionable child one and two remain silent; and instead, by reverting to an act of poignant posing they’d developed whilst attending the highly esteemed school of youth, they exhibit a range of deplorably unorthodox physical shapes, together.
Now slowly retreating to its place of comfort – esoterically content with its intrepid venture to a disparate sense of reality – Urban dad’s brow reunites with the primary focus, the ‘clever metaphor for thought’, and of course the digital contraption he so lovingly nursed.
“Oh, how wonderful” he mutters – to who or what though… let’s waste time speculating.
Suddenly yet simultaneously our minds re-focus as the non-existent puppeteer’s who weren’t perched on the exposed roofing beams release their grip on the jouncing strings.
Unimpressionable child one and two droop forward.
Forlorn, subdued, choked by (motor) exhausted dizziness and a strange sense of hormonal defeat, the Unimpressionable children… remain positive about life.
“What absurdities will be on display at the beach tomorrow they, I, he, or any other fucking pronoun, ponders.”
Despotic (super) hero ‘Green Prong’ confronts depraved nemesis ‘Telephone man’
in what appears to be… animation.
There, lies a tedious monotony threatening to invade the circumferential boundaries of our troposphere.
Here, bestirs a procreation coerced through societal suffocation and inability to express.
Particularly wary of first impressions… please, embrace the pleasure of pulsating retinas and enjoy this magical photo: