by Mark Ulyseas
The tamarind tastes sweet and sour as it sticks to the palate, while my tongue plays a game of touch and go…the tingling sensation running through the subterranean nether regions.
Life is, in a strange sort of way, a blissful mix of ignorance and searing pain of regret with touches of ethereal joy. At the end of every artificial year recollections come thick and fast with sorrows draped in great expectations for the coming new year.
And when another year begins to rise over the mount of Venus, we become drunk on the ecstasy of want, of the need to possess beyond reason. This temporarily satiates the senses. But like love, nothing lasts forever. A new year model will soon be on the market enticing the gullible for another roll in the hay. Ride or be ridden is the head bangers’ anthem.
From the sixth sense to the sick sense we gyrate to the tune of our warped wisdom. Time appears to be of our own making. Second hand knowledge, hand-me-downs and glib gibberish makes for a synthetic flow that infects all who bathe in a rapacious paradise with its side kick the water of life.
Inflammation of the soul comes along in due course to remind us of the excess of excess and the pointlessness of existing in a vacuous sphere. A hiccup here, a burp there and an emptiness craving for another shot in the dark becomes integral to our everyday living.
All this happens in the first flush of a new year. And as the year twists and turns like a kaleidoscope, shapes and colours changing to our whims and fancies, we become stale like bread left on a table in an abandoned home with rats gnawing away at the mouldy crust.
When hindsight becomes foresight and we begin to genuflect before the vastness of the Universe in an effort to mend our ways the year ends and another comes along like a bitch in heat… The cycle of incongruities starts all over again.
Nothing is what it seems. And what it seems is nothing.
Peace, Love and Little Cakes from the paradox in paradise.
© Mark Ulyseas