The arrival and departure of Youth

It is not in her nature to undo the calculation and reformat the structure of the middle class. Impoverishment is an inclination—yes, yes, a model. A behavior. A principle? No, she would not ever be inclined. She, unlike the timid inclination of the pedestrian, imposed the critical elements of evolution. Once, at one turn, I will depose her, he whispers, now and in general—sweats, cold hands, changing, and indeed, rising heart rate. I have encouraged a crucial and viscous propensity to disobey, she remarks later, in opposition to her initial bravado, but she is dying then, and her hands are warm, moist, and then cold, dry. She is more inclined to reject evolution, perhaps. It is theoretical conjecture, he mumbles, unaware that she teeters, in fact, and she will cascade, fall, plunge—she will evaporate herself, in her skin. To the bed, the dying bed. Cold hands, intensified heart rate. The likelihood of offending, of collapse. To dear to my heart. She wrote, in nuance, a proposition, but it was diagrammed meagerly, furtively, in the study. There are no windows in the study. Ah, she, her own master and dying breast is unlike the catastrophic rise of blasphemy. There is no substitution. The learned squalor, the erect and protruding emblem of creative intellect ponders, wavers, and declines into the vapid sources of despair. The dying bed eclipsed, then, in the overwhelming clamor, the cacophony of youth, now, now apparent, now rising into being and is the only chair, the last chair, the breaking speed into devolution: alas, we aren’t in the distinguished class of the recognized, no, not until the final failure, the pressing issues, the collapse: the inaccurate evaluation of the life, the reversed sense of creation, the undoing of the scientific inquiry. There is no other sense that is more apt in description than this absolute collapse. The feeble failure and abandonment of ideal: we are no longer captivated by our own reasoning, our own selves, our own being. We are no longer human, instead. Now bought and bartered by the eruption of a novel practical awareness, the need is to excuse and there, she is conforming. She is always conforming. They are always in sync with the main tunnels of survival. They are never rebellious. He, still in whisper, no longer sweating, not red like before, reading more sensitive, toward, moving toward, the great bridge into, above, the canyon. The middle class does not hold the ideals of any but the robbed, emasculated, starved. Impoverishment in comfort, even more precise, is an inclination. She is fearful, trapped in a dying bed. He is no longer activated by the premise or the promise of conformity. There is only one trap and it is catching.

No comments: