|Agonia.Net | Policy | Advertising||Contact | Participate|
|Poetry Personals Prose Screenplay Essay Press Article Communities Contest Special Literary Technique|
￭ The Angel in the Window
- - -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
2012-12-24 | |
Gazing through the narrow space left between my old Angels T-shirt over to the surprisingly sunny West Midlandish winter sky dully interrupted by the same chimneyed rooftops, I suddenly realised how much of what I see is just the moody construct of my own mind, coupled or not with tea, coffee and other controlled, well ...floating devices.
Everything perceived by senses has been, is, and always -dependent of dependencies- will be, an influentiable but uncontrollable matrix I'll call "my perceived reality", because everything seen bears the innumerable marks of the more or less invasive, infinite number of touches, cumulatively translated by our senses into this, "perceived reality" of each and every one of us.
Because, you see, regardless of how much my honourable "realist" critics would complain, for most of my senses the "world" behind my over-washed Angels t-shirt simply doesn't exist, fact majorly interfering therefore with the perceived reality of all those existing close enough to the multidimensional area from behind my boring, formerly red, Angels t-shirt; and having said that, the truth has become rather something to be found in-here, with its out-thereness more and more irrelevant.
Coffee, errands, (duh...) more errands, back, cold coffee...
Good, I've changed my window obstacle to a whitish t-shirt gravitationally stretching on a white hanger, just to notice the change of matrix: what's been room-wise darker has become lighter, and feeble rays of a shy sun are penetrating my humble, hanging attire...
But as time generously passed by, and my unwillingness to be peeped at from the street forced me pull the curtains between my whitish t-shirt and the window, this perceived slice of "my reality" changed, making the outer world a mere soundtrack competing only with my breath, the clock and the dryer's kitchen located humming.
Just me, with my formerly red Angels t-shirt discretely displaying chest-high, the fact that my wife's crepe suzettes weren't truly meant to be the -pancake built- maple syrup's final destination; all part of a perceived reality, as diverse as the uncountable angles from which all participating, perceiving senses can or cannot access it's molecular aggregate, paradoxically complete nevertheless on my iPad's screen, becoming therefore an adjustable-brightness featured extension of this mental matrix of "my reality"...
Banned for so long, outcast of a a world hijacked by conglomerates of power cast social nets, individualism has ceased to beg at remote altars of group indifference, reclaiming its birth-rights; because that which has been made, has to bow before those who were born...
And that which was told to be collectively "good", has to finally bow before what's personally good, with the "higher purpose" remembering its "lower" infrastructure.
Just to make sure Prometheus' liver won't end-up anymore, as a daily pâté on some pathetic chef's scavenger menu...
(to be continued...)
|Home of Literature, Poetry and Culture. Write and enjoy articles, essays, prose, classic poetry and contests.|