So about all of those ideas I keep hidden in my closet, skeletons of genius...when they grow up, grow flesh and emerge will you, will you, oh will you take their hands and accept them? Oh, oh, oh. This is the coming out terror of academia. Ideas are these embodied beasts that come to represent all that you are and wish to be and if the world of your field's experts doesn't love them, woe, woe, woe.
Meet Tommy and Franky and Isabel. I swear I gave birth to these flashy light bulbs, these bedazzling fire crackers, as I labored over mountains of dusty, overly-fingered books, the sweat, the dust, the blood of my brain running in light frothy drips of in
sight. Drip, drip,
get the gore? Get it? If it hurts you better get it. Birthing pains produce a fetus, no? Isn't pain supposed to emerge as productivity in this painstaking life? What if it simply produces more misery? And what if, after all the self-induced eye-straining, scalp-bursting concentration it comes to yawns, apathy. Horror. Horror beyond Frankenstein and zombie monstrosities. The horror of chasm: the yawn, it will swallow you up like oxygen, a simple passage of air into the lungs. The continuation of a diagram. In and out, you are going in, being recycled, one more molecule in a matrix of everything and nothing.
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