My gNOsis colD

There is this feeling.  More, there is this state, a mood of many misnomers that rises, that overwhelms me.  In frustration, confusion, the thick sickness of words comes in, always, and offers rhetorical support for this or that explanation.  The why and wherefore--someone too dumb to think pulled that dull game of blame and diagnosis out from under the bed--are thoughts become words (or words become thoughts) that only serve to muddy this version of love.   

(Diagnosis.  Just now, for the first time that word cracked open for me and I saw the gnosis there, the idea that goes to the center of it all.  This is a battle that begins with a wagging tongue, "In the beginning there was the word, and the word was with God, and the word was God..."  And then (presumably), the Silence was Satan:  Uncertainty, fear, change.")

There is this feeling.  More, there is this state, not nausea exactly but instead a queasiness inexplicably sourced in some sort of lie that somebody told at a party that everyone believed. The queasiness comes from embarrassment not for the subject of the rumor but at least a bit for the hearers turned conspirators, and first of all, for the speaker who, wanting "to get a handle on" all of it, unable to let it be, named it and numbed it unnecessarily.  Her better angel is bicarbonate to settle her own and everybody else's stomachs.  Down.

(The reader may inevitably, "may inevitably", and unenviably begin to see the words for all the false confidence they pretend.  This, in a realm ruled by description, by taxonomy and by the sloppiness of definition.  There are these deafening accidents in communication that will attack my credibility from the start.  The words have already started to mass all along the barren length of my frontier.  Every language is violent at its core, aggressive.  Inevitably, interbreeding will occur.  But these new words--the mullato progeny have fattened tongues--are just as readily available for mispronunciation.  

There is this feeling.  More, there is this state of animal disgust with the modern mythologies proposed by science.  Statistics may justify engagement but an equation made of numbers is no better than an equation make of words.  This monster inside of us cannot reallocate the time invested.  It spits its bile, and marks the new territories with the steady stream of piss and vinegar.  We are vegetable more than mineral, more animal than tree, or fern, or flower.  Across the spectrum of our dialogues, we would be better off growling, and purring, and braying like the stubborn jackasses that we are.  Or at least most certainly, that I am.