My So-Called Life XVIII


Curvature at an arc length of approximately 56 metres from the top of the dome, which reaches the apex of the fleuron that announces itself past the zenith. Equal distance away from the arabesque that repeats itself at 15 metres, equidistant to the next window, to the next window, to the next windows..

But how strange that these values don’t add up the way you want to. That is, unless you want the scaffold to fall apart.

It’s another night on this train to Bramalea. Crowded like a shipment of quasi-eviscerated trout on ice, except jacketed. We all reek with a tainted life, so foretold love mistaken for lust. I wonder where I stand. Regardless, it will be as disgusting as possible, as with any animal. Except maybe a prairie dog. So to speak.

I walked the flamboyant streets of Toronto, staring blankly at buildings as if I was amazed at something, and walking slowly. I hate the sound of car horns, and I hate light. I hate listening to gossip. Buildings don’t give any of those. Except maybe light, but those can be turned off anyways.

I don’t belong in the city streets, vibrant with makeshift circuitry with the conduit one calls sociology. I wonder how many those practitioners get paid for saying shit like that. We can attempt to objectify our sociological function all we want, but the further we find answers, the further we are from finding the quintessential form and figure of truth. See how you assumed I personified truth? I think not.

How your proverbial heart functions – funny how physiology seems to ruin the art of romance this way, doesn’t it? (after all, real humans don’t truly believe romance exists. Let’s not kid ourselves, now) – is best explained by the function of waves, sinusoidal and convoluted in nature, like the sea. At first, it’s a calm sweep of Her fingers against your feet, luring you into thoughtless bliss – complete with the release of serotonin from your amygdala, or some shit like that. You feel yourself getting heavier as you progress further, but you’re still entangled and engorged in this neverending, brain-numbing bliss called love.

But like any human worth their idiocy, bliss makes you dive further. Little does anyone realise you’re really becoming smothered and asphyxiated as you move further in the weight of the water. You’re as reckless as fuck, but you never care. No one will at this point.

Love kills. And it fucking hurts me every morning I wake up, and nights when I look in the mirror at night after I brush my teeth, counting the depth of bruising and baggage under my eyes. Love fucking hurts, and I’m a masochist.