The essay is a literary device for saying almost everything about almost any- thing. . . . Essays belong to a literary species whose extreme variability can be studied most effectively within a three-poled frame of reference. There is the pole of the personal and the autobiographical; there is the pole of the objec- tive, the factual, the concrete-particular; and there is the pole of the abstract- universal. Most essayists are at home and at their best in the neighborhood of only one of the essay’s three poles, or at the most only in the neighbor- hood of two of them. There are the predominantly personal essayists, who write fragments of reflective autobiography and who look at the world through the keyhole of anecdote and description. There are the predomi- nantly objective essayists who do not speak directly of themselves, but turn their attention outward to some literary or scientific or political theme. . . . The most richly satisfying essays are those which make the best not of one, not of two, but of all the three worlds in which it is possible for the essay to exist. (330)
coinciding in the same ghost town, we play our own parts. your pleasant half she stays, she makes the forsaken canvas drip with honey and rain just until the other half is a pretty shade of golden. quite deliberate in her speech, she speaks of all kind with such beauty and grace that the other half loses the sight of the gospel truth.
the other half; the unpleasant half stands pale, emaciated, with chattering teeth, swollen knees, bloody cheeks and her shoulders thickly covered with dust. she withers from time to time and confines the forbidden inside her to the point she’s only yellow skin-deep.
but when the two realms do eventually collide, it will bring forth absolute havoc and to witness such a moment would mean — to lose it all.
when the lands of atlantis shake just until there’s no more of it left to crumble, when the storms of the fallen heavens rumble with thunder and when the waves bid their final goodbye to yesterday’s past. indeed, nothing is to last. when the oceans rise against the chariot of arion and reckon the agony that’s to come.
when the sea boulders that once were sculpted by ocean’s grief breakdown into sediment of betrayal and distrust, only to disappear into thin air and beyond. when the lump in your throat replaces the haunting absence of the shore’s gust; the one that’d embrace you ever so strongly, softly singing words of love.
when the sun’s glimmer no longer seep through the waters of regret, the deepest and darkest ones to ever exist. when the sirens dust their shimmer off and the eyes of mermaids glisten with heartbreak and woe. when the lands of colchis stand too weak to bear the anchor of argo
that’s when you know, that’s how you know.
under faint luminescence, in fever gelid and perpetual gloom a single breeze caresses a young heart. anguishment burns out in restrain enshrouding a wavering belief settling almost a little too heavy on the shoulders.
"i chose you."
with every hearted strain adamant on his zither, longs a melody yearning in its full earnesty. the daunting question too thick to the tongue lingers, heavy and in layers yet unambiguous to open ears. in years and old promises, brims a love with and for the once child.
"you chose me."
a triumph break that of a fated reunion, one can only retreat into the safety within arms length of that the other had to offer. with yesterday gone, little words of reassurance and warm exchanges he now plays the same melody but a different symphony.
"you are my chosen family."
what worth is any loss against his? against theirs?
out of breath at five, he runs frantic staggering on his feet, lurching past and against the city that relentlessly howls his name. with his heart hammering against his chest, he believes he's lost. he's not home.
at seventeen pain anchors him heavy, flooding his heart; callously but quick enough to feel like it's drowning and so he swears by 随便, adhering to whatever that he last bears — to always protect the arms that never fail to cradle him back to safety. his home, long robbed of it's dwelling now baths in the stench of blood and gore completing his misery. like a knot of thorn laced promises enclosing onto his throat his voice betrays him, like never before. transfixed he stands; with the sound of blood rushing to his ears and with his whole world set ablaze he harbours a little too long drenching in envy.
and then he leaps.
truly, what worth was any loss against his?