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Array
(
[sid] => 109416
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Cross The Line
[time] => 2005-11-09 20:44:50
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => His life is a picture of contentment, reflected flawlessly by an exterior so perfect that people refuse to believe that impurities could lie underneath, but it is nothing but wax, thousands upon thousands of coats applied over a lifetime of struggle. He cannot remember whether it was made to keep things out, or something in. He's a modern day renaissance man with a cunning, sinuous mind, but he can't control it, and it terrifies him. He can only guess what thoughts will bubble up next, he can only guess what path they will lead him on. Still, it is admired, as is he, for its complexity and imagination, but he cannot trust it much longer, it grows more impatient every day, screams at him with impertinence to relinquish control. Sometimes he tries to. People will praise him, if he asks, but they do not understand what it does to him. He awaits their response with fear, thick and palpable, pouring from his synapses, drowning rationality in a sea of mixed messages and desperate cries. The adoration is a cheap thrill to him now, and rings hollow inside his head, he knows verbal lightning is not enough, he needs to have something tangible, and he knows what he wants, after a lifetime of indecision, but he fears, and this is the worst to him of all, that the time for it has passed. It literally kills him to think of this as a missed opportunity, and he slips into chaos. Still, he does what he can to hold the black dog at bay, though he feels it hounding him with every step he takes, but his success is meaningless, he has not yet even begun to hear its howl, and it is a pack hunter, each member as sinuous and cunning as he, with jaws like black steel, all consuming, to both predator and prey. They glide through the night with dangerous grace, attacking and retreating without warning or cause. Fighting with them is a walk along the razor's edge. The focus shifts to more immediate matters. No matter what feedback he receives, he can't shake the feeling of being the known and the nameless, familiar and faceless, a curiosity, often cited, often overlooked. It is not enough purpose to fill his cavernous mind, and he wonders, If we transcend subdivisions, where do we fit? He does not know. But it is cold outside of established perimeters, and at night, when he hears the click of claws on the floor and padded feet walking up the stairs, he dreams of an answer. Sometimes it comes in the form of a backflip off the razor's edge. Sometimes it doesn't come at all. He doesn't know which scares him more. [comments] => 2 [counter] => 210 [topic] => 65 [informant] => HydroK-9 [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 9 [ratings] => 2 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => toughstuff )
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