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Commuted
It seemed at every turn that morning my head was on rushed by the overwhelming beauty of this body, the earth. A vessel I had prior to this point (and clearly, in my current predicament, much to my own detriment) considered ballooning ungainly with the tepid swill of men & their proclivity suddenly seemed bursting with bountiful light. I was a castaway mesmerised by the teeming & alien fecundity of a rock pool on a desert island. I was a little boy stood in the yard of our homestead watching my impossibly beautiful mother wash her long lustrous hair in this vessel, her seraphic prime to my eyes not yet coiled with pubescent ruin.
Unable to simply bath hippo-critically in the river of consciousness my analytical function sparkled in time with the late summer morning. And this of course was the point or at least part of it I was convinced. I was quite aware of my own melodramatic tendencies and emotional flooding. Psychotropic in excelsis I was a sucker for a sunny morning and this one in late summer, early September, the day of my bearing and ironically now my carriage to the blood red terminus, was just the right atmospheric mixture of H2O and heat to hard with dewy chill and softened with sunlit warmth. Seasonal crepuscule meant the military buildings of the yard appeared to b both flat against a winter depthlessness and floating in the briney gulf of summer.
It was amusing to me that I couldn’t wait to b out there with them when I thought of the days events to follow. The crime that would b committed in that yard to absolve crimes that revenged crimes ad infinitum since the day man first crossed man. I was part of this vortex now and couldn’t escape as although I forgave those who soon would erase me my instinct could not help but kick against piety and prey fire upon them from others like me who couldn’t bear the weight of being awake and alone. That morning I watched the sun rise golden through the trees above the barrack house and knew I was part of her gravity & would b absorbed back into her rings of fire (Dante?)
Even though I knew my wraithlike vapour was just another mortal coil heated from the elements of hatred it’s immanent dissipation was also constituent of my levity. I was letting go, drifting away and leaving this so often unbloodied torture &turmoil with a bloody spurt & sag as the heat from my crimes and my sense of injustice (that had propelled me across this batten pile with a swish or ten of my threshing arm along the necks of the bulwarks and custom officials of emotion) spat and dribbled from the punctilious punctures made in my celestial construction. Itraced my finger tips gently through the dusty crevices between the bricks of my cell and I gave my thanks¬†¬†that our conspiring minds, tho agile enough to architect our prisons bother inner, outer and meta were not over-arching enough to complete and perfect them. There was always a window, a way out. I heard the footsteps of the officer tread with fortitude but no concern over the abattoir slabs outside my pen. Whether this was through merciful design or not was of no consequence. It was a failure at the last for each soaring essence the final triumph. A flap in the door casually flopped upon to reveal a snatch of featureless eyes, professionally fixed, and a profile or two workmanlike and disinterested. The door swung open with a little less vim I thought than the observation and feeding flap but I wasn’t looking now externally anyway, and quickly I felt arms upon me, hands not just without bodies but without sentience just mechanics. Then with equal lack of love or hate they were dragging me without difficulty