Lockback, I lock back, look back
and I look back to the past as I look in the look, as I lock in the paraphrasing and immaculate sway of dissociating words to create the facade in my own texts, to distance myself from myself in the text and my body, as my wretched soul carries the pettiness and shamefulness of my acts, my conduct, and my every moment, locked and looked back and forward. Such is futile, to change the future, even less with the honesty of words, and even less with the exaggeration or lies that come (in truth) from the truth of the lie that lies in my perceptive, receptive body, with each neuron signal and sensor that transforms my signal to noise and my noise to sensation from the sensors. My emotions and disparities. And I apologize to you, and to yourself, for myself, on behalf of the me that I am and the me that I was. And I apologize for the cruelty, the wretchedness, and wickedness of my computing words. In the distortion of words, ideas, and light in each paragraph, even if they were (not lies), they were not true. And I condemn thoroughly each and every part of me that escaped the containment of my crystal capsule that disintegrates each living thought and traps them until they dissolve in acid. But they are recorded, they were initially recorded by me in my mind, in my guilt, in my conscience, in the bad faith that I have as a slimy, scared fox escaping the grasp of the darkness of the witch of the forest of evil.
I appreciate the continuation and the gratefulness for which I can lock and look. back to back and back again into the look as the back locked lock back.
In a Rubik’s Cube shifting the letters and words into each slick metal and shiny slot. (Every time making a satisfying deep silver click) Each one of them conforming an increasingly more and more confusing wave of shifting and oscillating whispers that make (or aim) to not make any sense.
But if you paid attention you've seen that it makes apparent the abhorrent redemption I search for in my actions as I catalogue the grotesque vermin of my words. Even though they were not aimed at her, they were aimed at (her) but not her in the physical sense, but instead (her) as the metaphysical space or creature with an amalgamation of cruelty and shifting faces with an overblown meaty body, distorted or contorted.
In truth I am grateful, and I've been rescued by the abhorrent creature, but not the creature in nature, rather the creature in propaganda. She gave another opportunity. But the key was that it happened after I already accepted the closed door.
In some sense the death of an expectation makes room for improvement, as in ascending a mountain or hill. And it becomes higher upward to see how miserable and pitiful tunnel vision can disrupt you. It is until you care nothing that you learn to care.
I gave birth to vermin, as tiny dolls fracture with glossy and dark eyes trying to drag me down and paint pitch black taint into me. Because I surely have tainted the look back, and that song. and that movie. and that smile. and that look back. As we, (creature and I) stand in the pitch black room of whisper, I manage to adjust my eyes to the darkness and see accurately the true space, the confines of the room. The real aspect ratio, the real definition. It feels like a cabin. like if that 4×4 room, with a 4.5 tatami carpet have been cut from the rails that keep it in motion and I just watch it how it leaves and drifts slowly afar from space. Something you can only see when time inevitably pulls you outside of the railway, initially when your arm hurting as it drags you but the more you struggle against the more you extend like spaghetti.
It's not gone, I can still see it. I can even revisit some of it later, but each one of the items comes with the slimy dark coat, maybe less, it is noticeable with enough attention, but it feels harmless at this point. It's weakened.
Sorry.
For all.
But even to myself.
But thank you.