The magic of susceptibility

So I'm quietly torn between the 'magic' of susceptibility and the harsh, crumbly beat of imminent failure. 

I'm ok with that. Truthfully I approach this with an unheard of equanimity. A level of concentration and mocking appeal to the intemperate at once irrational majestic and improbable.

"Fucking impossible!" She crows with hapless satisfaction crumbs of the polythene bag falling dramatically from an open bag of Savoy (failure flavour) No subtlety just a relentless assault on the false sense of humility that brings me here.

Every Monday I'm at my desk computer balanced precariously, tuned to radio chill waiting for a predetermined selection of my favourite compositions. I can't truly make sense of it though. It never flows like a freshly uncorked bottle of cheap wine.

No

My 'flow' is more like the volcanic dribble of unformed thoughts and randomly potent barbs. The more I think about herding them into some service for my mordant ego the less they feel like practical building blocks of a story. Happily, I rarely have to worry about that My post-accident life takes on a cheery devil-may-care, whistling seductively as I pass wind gratuitously. Finger to keyboard, pen to paper mouth to receiver. It's all symbolic: I mean it because ideas are vital: fluids born out of doing NOT being.

Eventually, all that shit dies as an inevitable consequence of simply existing. Whenever I prepare myself internally for my version of a sanity check. Let's call it the verbosity confirmation. Every single time I'm torn between the kind of flow that mourns the loss of every stillborn word. While gleefully helping themselves from the smorgasbord of popular opinion always offered up.

I rarely worry about that though. I draw my content from a late but wide-ranging realization that few individuals have much control over their reputations. Each person has a context-appropriate blanket of attitudes with which they shape around themselves providing both heat and psychological protection. Most importantly though, I make precious little distinction between the objective thrust of fact and the gracefull sprinkle of fiction.

It takes a lot to start this engine. Multiple false starts, One huge sweeping statement; broad in scope, unapologetic in grandeur yet gracious in multiple defeat. It starts in belligerent fits of noxious black cloud than eventually begin to swirl into cogent tenses.

I'm happy with the efforts from all contributors, it feels like an important truth has been teased from the indistinct gravel of suggestion. I'm rising slow but philosophical while still faithfull to some proud but irrelevant reality. Happy to step aside and allow 30 years of largely silent experience sing out with desperate abandon to the ponderous din of 'scholarly' verbiage.

As long as logic and circumstance allow, everything permeates into the golden mash of perpetual, accepted logic. Timeframes blur with a steady impact. Like the continuous swirl