Two Hundred

When I made this blog, I had a misconception about satire.

Save maybe a few negligible posts about elevator outlets and emergency feed knobs, this blog has never been what I now know to be satirical.

What I read in my literature class makes me feel small for wanting to write satire

witty like Twain and Bukowski,

or gracious like Pope and C.S. Lewis,

or bitter like Heller and Golding.

Palanhiuk, Bradbury, Orwell...

Ignorance truly is bliss

until we're blindsided by Swift.

I turn my eyes up to the mountains. I don't see them as I used to; I'm learning that they're probably the most insecure part of this area. I'm expecting the worst and am frustrated that everyone seems to be preparing for the best. My irrational fears occupy my thoughts, as they are wont to do.

Ignorance truly is bliss

until our city sinks into the ground.

Underneath the mountains is the other end of my building. My side is reflected in the glass so I can't actually see into the lobby, but I can imagine someone else doing the same thing as me. We're looking into each other eyes and don't even know it. Maybe that's why I feel unsettled.

Eye contact does that to me. The real, 'I am looking at you' eye contact.

It electrocutes me; it's oppressive and invasive, but I can't just let go. When I somehow finally manage to tear away, I'm tingling with the memory of it and all I want to do is look back to see if I exaggerated the sensation.

The moving sun makes the opposite room more visible.

Ignorance truly is bliss

until we realize that no one is looking.

I really should have called it 'coffee-flavoured thoughts' or 'coffee-flavoured musings.'

Where are those careless observations? That bliss from 200 posts ago?

I still don't write satire, and though I write far better than before, I can't help but consider the cost. I'd never actively seek out the influences, but I will confess to taking advantage of them when they do come.

I write in a room of mahogany, with bookshelves for walls and echoes for company, where I can see the dust in the air because the sun is blaring. The chair I sit in is so uncomfortable that it makes my back ache for days after, but that's the cost for using the room.

I imagine what I must look like from the doorway--a chair, a lamp for nighttime, a side table with clear liquid in a clear cup.

All are dark forms against the bright window behind me.

A silhouette

and a shadow.*

I endure sitting in the chair because when I get up to stretch and look back on my writing, it's illuminating.

I am aware.

-rae

*Plato's Allegory of the Cave