Rorschach: What Do You See?

 "For all the ones who bum me out (shitlist)

For all the ones who fill my head with doubt (shitlist)

For all the squares who get be pissed (shitlist)."

-L7, Shitlist from the album, Bricks Are Heavy (1992) 

 

 

Fuseli, Henry. The Nightmare. 1781. London, England.

Look at the blotted paper and tell me the image that comes to your mind:

In ash, essence of tranquility falters in the hands of a reaped existence. 

Watch my red nails glide along the bends of the river, as the laziness of attempting still-water takes me-- envelops with vacillate waves-- towards the grave of my childish ways. 

My body lies buried and unscathed, underneath an old willow tree that dances in the breeze of memory. 

Where pursuit of aspirations and feeling alive begins to flow from East and nostalgia bends her will towards the West, 

The wind whispers the faint flurries of laughter that once infiltrated the air of my past, between the foliage of opportunities that rustle amidst the forthcoming challenges ahead. 

Bones, crafted from waxy caricatures of dull-pointed crayons, scribble on the plaster of maturation whilst glittery ink drips from the fountain of emotions poured over in a drop-too-many; 

However, a bad case of Rorschach blots and stress-induced stomach aches send a shiver down the worn back-bone. Lumbar transforms into a malleable medium of medical arrows, plunging to the depth of a wounded soldier's core, in order to exterminate a purple heart into that of Medusa's stone. 

I merely attempt to decode the pattern of crystallised wings, that flutter and dance unanimously, in effort to grasp a form of comprehension that doesn't sleep around with evasive behaviour. 

Now that the bottle of time has been cracked by faulty and careless actions, the grains that accounted for bloodlines are now accompanied in an ancient land where the heart cries.

Odd that everyone knows, isn't it? I bet you didn't think it would surface. Yet the only witness of deception is the ways of Life and how the older one becomes, the worse the betrayals are than the sporadic breaking of crayons. 

So, to sum up your perception, it's a sense of entitled carelessness?

Indeed.