Ameena Mohyuddin
Digital Output, 2010.
some of us escape to keep sane. lose yourself in Prokofiev's symphony number 5. go on, try it. it's an old habit. turn it up and it will drown out the chaos. i promise. it's as if its screaming through the veins of itemized nonsensical proportions.
prose is suppose to be clean. or so i'm told. emotional is alright, but description is just plain TMI. do i say what i mean? do i mean what i say? do i maintain a semblance of structural patterns that indicate normalcy? why can't we agree to just simply disagree? have the rules changed? did i not receive the memo addressed to me?
these moments of mysterious truths are self-inflicting revelations of the absolute unnecessary. loud will get you heard. bold will make you strong. nice will conceal your truth. this number 5 is torturous. does Prokofiev know that masked paranoia only breeds momentarily lapse in beauty? maybe he was on to something. it's a build up of the future. it's the break point of the past. and yet it calms and soothes. but the only catch is, you have to parade in this masqueraded realm of everything but anything.
and the quiet exit of the keys hitting the tunes of this hieroglyphic bubble that you want to need to long to ... escape the wrestling of arbitrary signs. am i now a being in a EM Foster saga trailing behind the spotlight of resistance and empty grandeur? oh this is surely a nightmare. please, will you wake me?
