30 June 2010

The Wasteland

Three years. End to end, three whole years: words, words, words! Three whole years, nothing but words…

Words dead and gone, old as time, the mark of age stark upon them; words newly come into being, fresh from the eternal forge, glowing with light of an eager race rushing, pushing onwards on its brutal march to glory; words pregnant, in limbo, still to come and full of promise of change, transition to a new reality. Words all; on words, in words, through words: the dance of words, the play of words; inexorable- forwards, backwards, the unceasing laughter, protest and gloom of language, words; capable and not, nothing to say, recording all; trapped in themselves, striving to break; always, yet never – words…

Nothing but words. Life, action, reduced to words, seen through words, through rose tinted, blood stained, sepia coloured words. Words a power, a force: mesmerising, enchanting, revolting, infuriating, ever present; the seed of life, the noose of death – all colour, all blood, all being, all, words.

Yet, what now? What of words? Nothing but words, nothing but a hack. A hack. Prostituting words for figures, figures on papers, papers as words – conceived and exchanged as words. Even so, even if not, even then a web, an illusion: a mask to hide, a mirror to conceal – conceal yet reveal, expose in the revelation and yet conceal. Papered all along, papered still; words on paper, papered words, run of the mill. What difference? Words.

Three whole years. A waste. Caught, trapped, useless for all but words. Big and heavy, small and trite, words all, a binding plight. Three whole years a journey on, first to the shrine and now beyond. The shrine? Airy, ethereal, full of light – yet, all of words contrived. Slowly the change, the darkening heart, a sanctum hollow, exposed at last. Hollow words, hollow life, saying much, saying all. Doing? Might, might…

A happy plight? Beyond? Again. Again, two more: two more, and more, and more beyond. No shrine this time, no journey long. A waste still, a waste ever more…

Yet, of hope some is born…

1 comment:

Creation said...

Crouched over
You were not there
Living in fear