Despair: The Patron Saint of February
the nature of despair is such that the particular longings it inspires may hardly be traced back to their causal source, for under its state is sanctioned longing, unrestrained; as would an abysmal shroud of disinterestedness cover over passions protesting their purpose, blighting all it touches. beyond the rule of worldly measure lie the true depths of despair; its domain marked by apparitions, transcendental, as infinite possibilities howl through determinate cracks persisting in the grounds dividing what’s now and what’s no longer; gasping with all their might for a breath of final ends. despair brings to its pitiful knees any amounting mass of corporeally engaged insurgence, the pain of such trifles no longer felt in the reign of its awakening. the senses overcome, the body lain prostrate, psychosis brought to the brink of its power; despair unfolds itself over the whole of its condition. however, if one serves the furious storm of sublime re-collection it brings, serves the nauseous waves coming to rhythmic terms with without, there emerges on the horizon a faint glimmer of hope that one may discover resettlement in sublating the time kept between despair and its original counter, reception. without waiver, then, i believe that we all ought to succumb to despair; so that it may spare us blissful ignorance over the bounds of our extension, what gives absolute worth to our little world of objective affect, holding for hostage our release.
Copyright Keli Birchfield 2017