Tuesday, April 21, 2015

prose poem 9 | the book

The wind outside whistled, screamed, pressed against the window. It meant nothing. His psychic dance with the book consumed him.

White hot, crystalline lattices of another’s thoughts coalesced and spread outwards, building within his mind. Each arm grew as a perfect extension of symbolic, logical necessity. The book expanded and expounded, a perfect framework of sensible if alien pieces.

Still yet, surprising arches of innovation and stunning revelation leapt and spiraled between the necessary structure. That the shape, that those words could turn back to the beginning and make it untrue but perfect, that those ideas could grate against themselves and only become sharper, that this tome was possible, struck him with savage vigor.

The structure was beyond powerful; those words, those ideas showed him so much, but the empty spaces between set his mind on fire. Those open ends, those hungry voids, those potentials, such hints of possibilities: these things his mind had to fill! These things set him ablaze.

Like a spent match he lay sleepless in bed.

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