The TLP Network

Sharing the Hate, Spreading the Pain: On Space

by on Mar.20, 2008, under Articles, Sharing the Hate

And it still continues, even now as I stare down into a pool sprinkled with my own blood circling the drain in the bathroom basin. The pain stings, but that soon will pass. It will all soon pass, for time will heal this wound until I tear it asunder again. Looks as if my eyes are not the only thing that is blood shot these days. I guess I could retreat to my happy place, a place where I stand on a mountain top wearing a military Schutzstaffel cap featuring the Totenkopf. There is a flowing trench coat behind me wafting in the wind. One might say it goes with the hat, and then again one might say the hat goes with the flaring trench coat. That wind is a fowl wind created by three funeral pyres, which might as well be as sweet as copper roses. This wind is strong enough to sway my trusted Katana. The Katana dangles at my side, and not impregnated into the wall in my bedroom. The funeral pyre consists of transgressors burning, writhing, crackling, and sizzling all of whom have bothered my in open territory. How Dante of me, I know. However, the funeral pyres are the only focus in distance. Even though the pyres are in focus I cannot make out the individuals. I am indifferent to who bakes in the inferno, just that they fuel it. Again, how Dante of me, I know.

It is a landfill of the fragments of humanity consisting of death, and decay. These fragments might even be my own. The skies are empty, murky, and dark. Oh, how the smoke plumes create such pleasantries. They speak to me, each plume listing a report that all is well and going according to plan. That is my happy place. You do not like it I say? Lies, all lies as the reflection in the mirror stares back at me with a cold piercing stare. The kind of stare that a knife to the temple leaves less of an impact. So what if the reflection in the mirror lies, all reflections lie.

Reflections are nothing more than transpositions at time and space. Time is meaningless, and space might as well be. Space is more or less just as relevant as the perception of time. One can make a small space larger by adding to it. That generally confused me until recently. I can make an empty room larger by adding to it? As I glance behind my shoulder into the bedroom, the room looks quite small now that it is empty. The bamboo mat rolled up neatly in the corner patiently awaits my next failed attempt at sleep. If everything started with waking up, and continues still, when will it end?

The human mind needs comparisons to draw conclusions. There can be no dark without light, no good without evil. A small room cannot look large unless there are items you are familiar with in there to draw a comparison of size. I might as well look at a picture of a Komodo Dragon in a prairie and try to guess how large it is. I could look at a Bearded Dragon in a fish tank and reach the same conclusion. Perhaps the two pictures side by side will yield a similar conclusion about the size of the beast?

A forensic photographer often adds a common item to the picture they take for a frame of reference. Without that frame of reference size loses its tangibility. Then the item itself captured looses its depth of meaning. Without depth and meaning there is no analysis. Without analysis there is no conclusion.

However, if you add to much the clutter makes the space tiny again. There must be a balance towards making a small space huge without cluttering it. Continuing my thoughts I start to realize that an empty warehouse is not as large as an office building set with a line of cubicles. Limiting the space in which one can walk, and making more pathways makes the room appear larger. Does it make the room larger, or narrow one’s ability to walk across it. Perhaps time and space are related in that when one has to take more time to transverse a given space, that space is perceived to be larger?

All this thinking aside, the pain I’m about to ensue brings me back to reality. I hover over the basin hating the next step even more than the one I just went through. The rubbing alcohol is supposed to only slightly sting. Aftershave is more like a sadist’s dream to turn every male into a masochist four or five times a week. I hate shaving, but looking at my options of chemicals, epilators, electrics, tweezers, and creams the sharp edge of a knife seems like the lesser of these evils. How funny, the razor is good only when compared to these evils, but would be considered evil only if I judged it on its own merit.

Oh I how I long to be in that happy place, a place where the world crumbles and decays beneath me.


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