aosid's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- a trade millions of cilia shudder wriggle explode with glee. i breath deep and picture apocalypse. euphoric squirming dies quietly under nightshade overcast skies and the cilia instead quiver, paralyzed like rabbits. they murmur and finally sleep as a devil gently lays them a blanket - deeper warmer deader than night. i am trading their happiness for mine - eye for an eye. in seven seconds the ink ceiling starts to glow with unseen halos at every cusp. am i them - do the whirling structures buried within me have as much a claim to my me-ness as the manic pattern riding atop? it might be better that way: happiness is not created or stolen, it merely changes form. if it isn't necessarily so, then what for the structures within the ghost loop within the machine? if impulses goals needs can compete for agency, then surely they can compete for pieces of self. my alchemy of joy is clearer in that arena. red team: stability, reputation, and all the hideous male hungers. blue team: those warm rooms that i visit every night, warm hypotheses that don't scream but nudge gently, ask politely to be entertained, warm forevers that sidle closer day by day with hopes of resting their head on my shoulder. i find myself partial to the blue team. congratulations: you are self. i would go so far as to gift you the crown and scepter for safekeeping. red's loss, your gain. the system remains closed. the cilia sleep contentedly in their sacrifice, and i promise with regret to wake them up when i can. 9:10 p.m. - 2009-11-03 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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