Future

!Inspired by flash fiction challenge prompt at THee Ranch for for the theme of erosion~

Can our physical beings, our bodies absorb technology? Will it compress, simplify, make things swifter like a chopper (in the sense of “chopped motorcycle”); or jumble, confuse, create various mutations we will be unable to sustain eventually adapting and evolving without organs and the like, gall bladders, appendices, digits, or even portions of our brains…? Furthermore, will we not anymore need education and literature, ‘showing out work’ and that sense and motivation, hardwork? Will the wearing away be the betterment of humankind?

I do not know if it is (or will be) better that a better future had been built for us; in that we are handed things anymore. Or, we do not struggle so much and really place full effort into some creation. But Art was the medium the imagination produced.—Art was the imagination the medium produced—Art produced the medium the imagination was.—Art produced the imagination the medium was.—The art, the medium, the imagination, was produced.—The imagination, the art, the medium produced.—The medium, the art imagined producing..—The…

#Idontmind_Idontcare

Having never had a perspective of the future; never considered; only figured a considerable deterioration of humankind since I can remember with something like diverticulitis searing visions of myself within, protrusion pustules eroding the tough skins of my intestines. Are these making kids weak? The ‘anxiety’ everyone thinks they feel…. eroding of mind vs body; diverticula impacts, tiny craters been destroying my minds’ intentions.

Yet from youth, there was a vague sense about me that still senses everything. A broad idea seemingly innate too that I could capture it all; and somewhere, at sometime, some point – it would be brand new. And we would be anything we wanted if only we tried. Clean. Healthy. Wealthy. Famous. Great. Stars. The Future.

I do not seem to have ordinary dreams of brilliance, a classic everywhere, if you will…I must must write.  An apparent, no matter how you try to say it, you cannot say it all; but everlong to cover every angle with a story not my own.. ..break it all down like fine tuning maps, like Christopher Wren steeples, Steven King novels; or even better, like chiseling gouges cut into carving realms, etched into eternal surfaces after surfaces thus peeled away by inevitable disbelief in the imminent agony of the prodigious little pictures incinerated……centuries away. Oh how desperately weary I fill in the salient old age; yet soaring with ideas never seen in the existence… Questioning, Am I old or young? Am I living, or dying?

Yet I was raised to earn my halo. So precise, frenetic, digging and thinking, I have labored  tremendous, nearly with epileptic madness of such finite details to flawlessly flow an immovable stone.Just as precisely the surfaces of the earth’s, and the future, right here, right now; and the further we extend in the bonus time beyond every prophesied end; the further we go, the more history and information unfolds; the more dinosaur bones in the Antarctic. Graves at Stonehenge. 3 planets similar to the Earth. What’s beneath the Americas? Earth’s melting to the poles, the other side of civilization. The other side of the ancient globe. Revealing, uncovering  what was buried beneath them. Just to think -Ohh so far in Time..what is beneath the frozen poles? As I always go go go; so many layers from the beginning to wherever, inevitably unpile so much as it rolls, floats, just grows in the unknown…so…..oooohh weakening to my own equilibrium creations of mine again, and again….well they just…. erode. I been overwhelmed in twinges of encased greenfield/flexible steel conduit gnawing, hunching me down, intestines stinging particles up my gullet, burned in a mindbending press and stress in exhausted disbelief of the languid solemn attempts, meager, yet desperate constructions I wanted to say, huge levels inevitably aging instantly and separation of myself from this place I sought to form. I always figured it the inevitably of humans becoming artificial, removing, bleaching, taking antibiotics, wiping parts of our bodies, the plagues, and digesting plastics; fighting to create rules for equality, kill germs, choosing life, or shooting the nature. To me, we have gone too far, I figure. Overevolved. Been trying to achieve separation from that which destroys us. So, now the essential enzymes and elements have succumb to extinction and evolution.

I felt the slipping tug to feel up my guts into thoughts and general things I considered doing each and every day as my brain in this claustrophobic girth cooled thorough eyes of the infinite images that my adventures, life; tiring in their own technique, and worthless clutches of the pressing electrocutions searing in pains… that will forever be eroding beyond this generation, stuck between the identified past and the bright ignorance of what we will call the future, simply – lost.

Let go of the dream like a soulmate in a flash through some window pane. Morning tremors suck this inherited morning mouthed into blankets, pasty. This sick rolls over pumped away freight and hyper quivering egress of disturbed interchanges to rid the tensions biting off at the bladder, eagerly above, twisted in accumulating panic, around the waist, flexes slowly bends my toes to retract over and over for distractions and releases of the gassed anxiety so full and overwhelmed with visions of the impacts, holes, the eroding gaps in my insides, bending ribs, protruding kidneys, burning like a candle around these reticent depths of uneven animations and destinies or discoveries of self I will never experience. Energy, the natural circulation was clay digestions and flows of veins into this foam I swallowed feeling the poisoned vacating palpitations that hollowed my heart and realm; moils in cool washes throughout my contours, flying lapses of swift emotions waiting to move and not flare the excitement tickling gulps getting a whiff of the breakfast cooking back there in my mothers home where the brain waves and vibes slacked into this illness every school morning; lagged inability to move whatsoever without the frail starvation full of nausea curling my first proof that I assumed to just waste away. Be it hormones or growing pains or teenage angst, the very adrenaline gulped in mere movements of -shooms of unwanted desires stung unlike anyone else; but for some reason worried sick and unbelievable, but pulled apart, contorted, a tremendous compression of a tremendous of awful thoughts of the depressions and disgust, the bleakless chills and gooseflesh; all that I tried to ignore…. with forever beset to angles (there’s nothing to lean on now) crinkled like waves pouring flashes over the crests; vanishing like breaths.

I don’t have enough to describe it all the way I need to. Yet that does not matter; the words, the thoughts, the complaints, the regrets, the anguish, the shrinking shouts but dog whistling into ever so horrific silence… I have satiated my life to comprehend the inner workings of myself and lost the most important angles I need to share; so, when life becomes identical to mine, in the middle of myself to just get a goddamn shirt on, ‘Why is it such I big deal?’ as breakfast, the pouring hot cereal, with dread, seized, as the CoCo Wheats my mom fixed lingered upstairs, knowing the cream of rice cold-mush-vomit will erupt over the black plastic toilet seat in one of the stalls of my High School…

Yet, for posterity, just by dipping a single finger here into the brown lake, static lengths snapshot reeling across the surface touching everything; as underneath, from below the magnificent excavating to the absent cavities, breaking open in the deep, surges quake… Just by continuing, living, or… raging as I like to say; Wee find hope, and here exhume a greater effect of turning it loud enough so the pioneers and ancestors, who in documentation of life, the writers and the warriors, all the Dead Souls will hear our praise for breaking the mold..for connecting us to the other world;… So wee can cross the imaginary bridges, lose that doubt… and leave our finger in the water long enough it wrinkles.

Yet decipher a man once upon a time who had a garage full of carvings with a hot pen, feathers in full detail, one with bear’s hair grooved of a piece of wood; and that when I had seen my youthful self, maybe 23-24 through his scalp and near collapsed in the depth of a reflection…this dying man is exactly how I feel; yet I could not carve all these things in his garage as he did until his death. Is that a fine metaphor of future. An art our imaginations produced worked into beautiful masterpieces?

Let loose the infinite pieces tremendously scattering… filtering, reproducing and generating, dying off, sacrificing, mutating and perhaps developing as the very everyday falling against that ignominious sky filters through to the brand new HOPE.

I bet Shakespeare never created to Beethoven. Of course he probably had some live string quartet or piano genius in his studio. But regardless, wires to the headphones, into that book smell of attic insulation, the deep excavating of our past, and oh ho how we have found _ _ _ _ my dear readers from the ancient core; the spirit, the striving for tomorrow that cannot be told anymore than it can simply fill in the gaps and string to wherever I was originally going all along with writing – while its on shuffle… Soon. Folks. Soon. Ignore the ambiguities and lock the brakes; we found our roses. My my intentions/suggestions that you hit play as you simultaneously reading me. That is how it gets written. And……. blends… here…to –

– to capture the essence just existing however ridiculous, crippled or magnificent, but living now in the time of Radio_ #untilthespirit_newsensationtakeshold_thenyouknow

Future by Elliott Lyngreen

He keys mmmultiple commands, simultaneously memorizing indigestion of manual entries, mesmerizing, “Finally! Yes!” Reprogramming, sync through transferring terabits. I mean, I’m not working. But Nik…”Go-go”/es determining ratchets, unlatches my back, “auto-switch froze,” flips, straps ….amongst construed cranks, flex line, locks on, flips another switch, ifreon pipes in.. “charging you.” Herniated rusting, inside-out taste numb disinteg:::ngchhhkink:: mmmerrr\.. (“whooa hang in my Link”) —–whispers — too much to \\_search: C:to>cfd^if/then:%%retrieve¡password:fakeout. >select_ #justwindupandmakeitgo_exe. Ahhhh completing.. Peregrinations, instrumentally ….”sounds like dreams cast eh my dude, but”.. to further generations, “with me, Link?”–“emm Loading recordings. Playing…”…. always feeds flickering, fading.

 

Thanks for raging. God Bless.

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8 thoughts on “Future

  1. Pingback: Erosion « Carrot Ranch Communications

  2. Your writing feels like a cosmic rush and your flash is a creative expression of that style you have. It feels like a ride even when you are revealing and projecting into the future. Ah, and there’s always hope. Somehow i think its essential to art. I also like the idea that Shakespeare penned to some genius musician in the background.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Interesting view. I never drove a motorcycle. Im sure its obvious. Good info.. My metaphor was intended for the elimination of unnecessary parts. I ran with it… theres a certain affinity with bikes i have. Thanks for the positive feedback. My future scares me. Yes there is hope. I try to maintain…. I dont think anyone has ever ‘loved’ the idea diverticula. Your comment is greatly appreciated Irene.

      Liked by 2 people

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