NeoLib_Abnegate

Uh well uh...you see...I can really relate to that one song, the one that Madonna sings, where the lyrics go, "This used to be my playground, this used to be my childhood dream." Uh well, uh, you see, um, there was a time when I despised that song so much, so much so, that I vowed to never lever to listen to pop music again, you see. Well um, I was um, probably about, um 7 or so when that song came out, and um, well um, that was just like um, you know, um, the first day of the rest of my life. And I don't mean in some sort of um, young, um, romanticized view of um, you know, that thing that they call it um, you know, not life--uh well, yah, that's exactly what I mean, life. You can consider me St. Thomas that day, the very same St. Thomas that poked and prodded the side wound of his Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, or when Zarathustra first considered the fight of good and evil the very wheel in the machinery of things: the transposition of morality into the metaphysical realm, as a force, cause, and end in itself, is his work. Uh yah, that's it, or perhaps still, it's more like in Rúnatal, a section, you know, of the Hávamál, where Odin is attributed with discovering the runes. He was hung from the world tree, Yggdrasil, while pierced by his own spear for nine days and nights, in order to learn the wisdom that would give him power in the nine worlds. Yah that's the ticket. It was like that, that led me here, and here I am, pissed, disposed, relieved, angered, soothed, itching, then scratched; swearing I was the first though it says I've only been a member for one day. That song about the playground led me to dark and mysterious cultures, and I thought I discovered the secret, the silver chord if you will, ready to tug me back at a moment's notice. And when I did tug, the silver on the chord began to chip, and that's when I noticed it was nothing but the cheap spray paint that a day laborer stole from Home Depot (bless his little, chubby heart), and I fell to the grand, elbows and knee deep in sand that sunk. I suddenly remembered the old parable of the Freiherr von Münchhausen, and attempted to pick myself up from my own hair, or was it the bootstraps, and before I could respond, I was buried deep with a mouthful and knave of wet sand. Every orifice filled until the inevitable explosion spread me throughout the corners of this sandbox, this playground that was covered in chrome metallic, razor sharp jungle gym end pieces, and 90 degree, rotisserie, ready-made slides, and alphabet blocks in an esoteric language that I had not seen yet before but in a distant dream and a distant past life that I had never lived. They wre all covered in a thin layer of the proletariat's gray spry paint, and I complained of a nasal congestion--or had I done nothing but tried to explain this to you, again, because of my Münchausen syndrome. I can't remember, but his was mine, and it was a dream, and you led me here, you devilish looking children.