A Sarcastic Fallacy

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All Writing done by A. J. Berges unless otherwise noted.

Spirits, Naught

It seems to me that the living
Take pity upon the deceased,
But often not the departed to bereft;
Tis but the same
The merry upon the lame,
Where those,
The butt upon the sky
Though the ground lay dry
Beneath the wine,
Beget ague upon the peaceful.
It is a stillness appreciated
That the spinning Earth doth revel;
Though tumult tumbles on.

Perfidious, pernicious polyps
Upon the concentration
Of those not yet divine.
Prithee,
Contain thy wreckage in thine ruins,
Where as not to condemn the street,
And by peace and patience
We make rubble lavacious.

The Parable of the Tunnel

At any given moment in time,
We, ourselves, place arbitrary
Significance in all surrounding motions,
In order to pretend that we a stationary,
That we are withstanding,
That the entirety of experience
Cannot phase the “present moment.”

It’s much like moving rapidly through a tunnel.
The only source of movement is the light,
If any, that can be deduced.
For whenever we find convenient,
We explore the surroundings
And state, through an absurdity
Of relative ease, that all around
Us must be moving.
That it is altering around us,
That it exists independently of us,
Imposing a will that we either
Suffer, or accept.

But there are many who turn
And no longer see light.
Instead, there is the eternal abyss
In every direction—the light before
Now swallowed by the absence.

How is one to cope,
Now that we are uncertain of motion—
Of anything really?

Some sit in the darkness and notice it’s
Presence within,
And thus, accept it outwardly,
Neither content nor upset.

Others postulate that the memory
Of said light provokes a moment
Where it must return,
And that once in motion one
Well inevitable remain moving,
One will either end or be eviscerated by the light—
Or both.

Others remain in the darkness,
Oblivious to movement or
The arbitrary argument of it,
And instead of longing for the light,
Relishing in the void,
Or languishing the abyss,
They perceive an opportunity;
A canvas;
Where one might create anything that they find necessary.
Albeit with lament or inspiration,
The capability to create remains.

Arm yourself with your heart,
And prepare yourself with your mind:
The shadows are more than uncertainties,
They’re discoveries of art and mind alike,
Yearning even the humored thought.

Paint your own lights,
Create your own exit.

Fairy Tales

It’s nights like these that
Seem to beg and reave memory;
Where the air lies cool and still
Under a gentle glow,
The sky, opaque, with
The slate stretched across
The horizon.
Where you cycle through all that
You’ve experienced on nights like these;
Surreal, steady in a moment
With the dew settling on your face.

Can’t help but wonder if it’s the same
Moisture that’s been waiting in this moment,
Waiting for you here,
To attend a joy forecasted from
Previous, cherished scenes.

So remote now that they feel like fables,
Like fairy tales that you used to read
In bed when your mind was restless.
Some sparce in relation yet inspiring
Nonetheless,
Closed eyes remind,
Replay those scenes like you were
Flying up above some distant land,
Staring down at a plot you knew so well
But you’d never even dream to open your mouth,
To dare the truth and it’s repercussions.
If there was anything you could tell
Them, you might just end up silent,
Waiting for part that shook you so much,
That captured your fantasies
Despite all the tragedies.

They were moments written,
Forgotten now in language,
But remain in image,
Bound to pages worn and revisited.
Pages bent to remind me where I was,
Where to return for seconds of a vague
Minute in a timeless land.

Pages where you kept me for so long,
Returning only in those rare hours
Where the moon abandons the sky
And let’s the restless soar into it’s gulf.

And I look through the pages now,
Passing through the stories,
Appreciating the scars on the paper,
Even when I had yearned for chapters
To continue, for redemption to occur,
And at times I feel unmoved.
Others I can’t even breathe.

I run my fingers along the edges,
Try to imagine what separates
These realms, no longer seeking
Their fusion, but to understand
Their independence from each other.
How every moment,
Every action,
Stands alone in story,
As just seconds,
Just ink.

I pass once more over the spine
As I bind the cover,
Remembering the titles and emotion
They’ve enthralled.
I return the book now to it’s case in the closet,
Where light cannot spoil the frail make,
And somewhere I know I’ll return to it,
But not as I have before;
No wistful annotations
To render the plot to my favor,
No anger to threaten the sanctity
Of it’s completion.

I know somewhere,
Sometime, I will return
To it, and I’ll even smile,
But the fantasy remains in it’s place;
I’ve found beauty and excitement
Even in the grey, stormy skies.
I have no intent to escape.

Paranoia

I’m still trying to figure it out,
To sift through the static,
To recognize a distinct emotion,
To recollect another moment
Where I remember this feeling
Accurate
Significant
Redundant or
Incoherent.

I wade through the tides,
Knees buried by the current
Sinking further as sand shifts,
Trying to pluck words as they float by
But the meaning still trickles down beside,
My fingers are too weak this time.

I keep looking to the others around me,
Some smiling,
Some laughing
Some forgetting that they’re out here;
Maybe it’s something I’m lacking?
What happened to the buoyancy?
I can feel it concentrating but not releasing.

The crests are rolling over my chin
And every so often I get a glimpse;
Everyone still playing and laughing,
Not a single worry,
Starting to make me feel like I’m
Just imagining it all,
Like somehow my mind conjured
A surrounding so ephemeral
But resilient that the body
Has little to no resistance.

I’m still searching for some description,
Something synonymous,
Something that can remotely begin
To put sounds to what overwhelms the body now.
The hair is swaying in the current,
Minerals glistening and reducing
The contour of the face;
But my lungs haven’t burst,
The skin isn’t even swelling
And I’m beginning to think
That I’ve never known how to breathe.
It isn’t painful but I can feel
The pressure disagreeing
From both ends.

At this point is it worth it to rise?
The Benz will billow the insides,
So I finally decide to open my eyes:
The gorgeous sea sparkles
And bustles with endless life,
A scene so separate from me
That I cannot help but be stricken with awe.

A beauty that will never require me;
A universe existing independently
While the minerals and stars
Dance around the body who has
Betrayed it’s limbs.

Paralysis

I felt the vibrations
And traced it back to the origin,
Knew you had spoken but
I hadn’t heard anything you were saying.
Matched the motions to the lips,
Forgot all sense of language,
Every sentence incoherent
But I saw the omen looming high;
We couldn’t understand,
Or even try to pretend.

What was lost was more than chemicals,
More than anything we ever thought physical.
The material defaulted and left us a realm apart.

At that moment I didn’t know how to react,
As if I had forgotten my lines,
Every breath and movement felt foreign;
Trained but still entirely separate.

Reminded me of those nightmares:
Falling quickly,
Gravity churning
And tearing you
From inside first,
Waiting for flesh
To catch up
And meet pavement

But you awoke too quickly,
And your body wasn’t with you,
The entire organism now completely separate,
Unresponsive, cold and heavy.

You struggle for breath
Keeping your eyes shut,
Distrusting your mind,
Taking pains just to move your finger,
Starting small and working across the body,
Lift the arm,
Shake the foot,
Stay calm and
Prepare to sit up,
Waiting to gain control
And mend mind to soul,
Remembering how quickly
They can separate.

And so you finally breathe,
Feel like you’ve recovered
And measure thoughts before
Returning to sleep,
But it’s never that easy.

I’m still trying to work the extremities,
Trying to meet the body back in the middle.
Starting with the small things,
Until I can finally sit;
I know it’s not much,
But it’s an accomplishment.

Casual Tragedy

Casual tragedies exist in every day life,
And it isn’t that we’re exactly at fault,
They happen at times,
Without warning,
Without reason,
Without sound.

They’re as silent as the sighing of the earth,
So near and far that we hardly recognize it.
It isn’t that these tragedies,
These pains,
These separations,
These accidents…
That these define us as who we are.

An image is more than just it’s shadows,
More than just than contrast and shading alone.
The effects of the dimensions we occupy
Offer more to us than that;
They are absence and omnipotence at once,
Balanced.

The average life that we lead,
Magnificent in its stride,
Though fleeting in its magnitude,
Is more than just these aches;
Yet I agree it is easier to remain in the shadows
Once the eyes have adjusted—
The entirety of your being gaping,
Gasping for light to replace the void.

The comedy then lies not at opposition
To these silent fatalities,
But at a realm aside them.
They do not flee eachother,
They simply are;
At times intermingling,
When others replace.

It is thus not surprising when reason
And absurdity intertwine
And make a mockery of validity.

The multitude of experience
Evokes both sentiment
And calculation,
Careful and spontaneous.
It is tumultuous in its mixture,
Reverberating and trembling,
Resonating from our very being,
Though it carries a calm,
A rest between measures,
An infinite space between letters
That absorbs us entirely;
And it is peaceful.

It’s a chaos that soothes the aether
Between frameworks of our lives.

It is a silence,
Waiting,
Patient and determined.

And it beckons.

It begs every fiber of the body,
Every confine of the mind
To feed back and beat,
To leave dissonance and entropy,
To rebuild a passion lost once inside;

To live the rest of life,
As human as we can,
One day at time.

The Absurd Generation.

It occurs to me that the romantics
Of this generation is of a new breed;
That is to say there has been
A realignment of virtues.

What before were words of “joy”,
Songs of “praise” and “hope” and the like,
That sought out to ensure a populace
That all that could be imagined
Could thus be willed,
Much alike our previous debuts
With Alchemy.

However, there are many dead
To prove that glistening dreams
Do not spark from lead.
Only poison.

It is such a relation of the ideals of this generation to it’s past,
Where before promise was guarantee enough.

It seems now that we surround ourselves
With the pains and aches of others;
And for some the self-acclaimed abscess.
A glorification of tribulation that states
That only the wise suffer,
And to attain knowledge or enlightenment,
You must offer the flesh or the heart.
It is a yearning for anguish,
The thought that from it’s seed stems
Some sigil of truth,
And that they cannot exist independently of eachother.

That could not be further from truth.

This is a sentiment that is not new.
Humans have craved the intensity of this harm,
This depression,
For centuries upon end.
From it we were told we are saved,
But remain drowning.

Though it is not unusual for the artist
To escape his pains in many mediums,
The obsession today is not of escape,
But to be lost, to be forgotten.

Where-went our optimists of a past generation?

It is not becoming of me to state
That they are no longer, but rather fewer now.
It becomes less to assume that this is
Wholly fault of two spectra of time.

We pursued alchemy,
With fervent hearts,
And found only ash.

I am thus not surprised about this
Resurgence of obsession.
Among the remains of a desire,
Chased blindly, we are left with
The present generation,
So spoiled by soot
That we fail to distinguish color.

We seek any emotion now,
For apathy awaits the tumultuous
And we are longing of the silence.

This is not weakness,
This is consequence.

But it seems now that any venture,
Once performed,
Can be repeated in many tones.

It is true ascension
For the artist to find beauty
In a world shrouded by pain,
By disappointment,
By anxiety,
By loneliness.
It is to kneel before objection
To rename anguish, “love”
To title depression, “greatness.”

Thus I propose we paint
A new picture:
One where we escape into the validity
Of a heart, where we exclaim empathy,
Free of folly,
For that is what we’ve always desired.

We wish to bring color to the grey world,
To relish the highlights
And not forget the shadows,
To encompass the entire spectrum,
And not scour the affronting shades
Behind false nobility.

To flourish in the nature of ordinary,
To enjoy the symphony of silence,
To find beauty in the self.

Let us awaken the sunken,
And return the heart to the Romantic.

Let us evolve, “Apathetic” Generation,
Let us brave the stone once more,
Let us stand resilient in the shadow
Of an eternal night and exclaim:
“We have not, will not be exhausted.”

Alchemy

It starts with every morning,
Ordinary and accurate,
Something sulking through the silence,
Sliding slowly, sinking, surely, in the skin
A sudden break, 
A gentle breeze
To shake the uncertainty
That slithers from beneath,
But I still feel like something is lacking.
Something’s empty, something’s quiet,
Waiting and building,
The dissonance struggling to exist,
All succumbing to resolution
Though no trumpets bellow,
Nor strings are played,
Just a casual moment,
A daily life.

And I stand here, 
Facing the mirror
Trying to piece it all back together
To calculate all the damage,
Measure out all the remedies,
Like it’s some sort of spell
That’s necessary to bring me back to my feet,
Like a recipe:
Brush the teeth,
Scrub the flesh,
Straighten the hair,
Start with a pinch of regret,
An ounce of enjoyment,
Four pounds of doubt,
Simmer with a gram of self-esteem
And paint your circles,
Line your tributes
And close your eyes;

Take a breath.
Let it work.
Let it manifest.
If your math was sound,
If your hopes were high,
You just might open your eyes
And feel like everything’s fine.
Like you’re normal again.

Absurdity

With how many centuries we’ve spent
Trying to perfect the human condition,
That we’d at least comprehend our stature
Seems to be the greatest fallacy.
We toil endlessly towards aimless ambitions,
Fastening our limbs to stars
Who fear the warmth of company more than any being could.
Thin, like fragile skin that shelters glass,
We stumble into a life that we’ve forgotten
Or never really gotten to know.

It’s these sentiments, so illogical,
So vacant of concept, that rules our body,
Makes a mockery of the mind’s
Unceasing labour.

Like the frigid emptiness that harrows
A room that has long since lost purpose.
It’s absurd—it’s absolutely absurd
How simple are the moments that I cherish,
That reel in this tattered projector;

Like waking up in the morning,
Just to check if your breathing,
The subtle wheezing and sighing
That brought comfort to my worry.

Like coming home in the evening,
Just to find to smiling,
Content, even joyous in every situation,
Just happy to be here,
To be beside us.
Just happy to exist, and nothing else.

It’s outstanding how little reason
Can explain the fragile seams in our life:
Every stitch kept at a goodbye,
Crossing over the many days that we
Assumed would never let slip;
But I did.
I never said much,
Not enough at least,
Too weak to acknowledge
How close you all were kept,
Placed by more than just blood,
But if I ever really could
Just admit all that I’m feeling
You’d never hear a word.

Even now, it frustrates me.
How simple it is to feel something,
To be Healthy,
But I never really feel like I’m here;
Just tired and worn out,
Just looking in from outside
And seeing someone alone,
Whose quiet and motionless,
Like there’s something complex
That won’t let me be,
That won’t let me feel
But there’s nothing…
Nothing of reason.

But I guess you understood that,
You smiled anyway,
Aware of the minutes,
The strength and the pain
And I’ll always admire that;
The slate against the wind,
Feeling the water eroding you
But never collapsing,
Only shifting, changing,
Mending with the world,
Returning to the same day
Not angry or fatigued;
Just resilient and confident,
My absurd hero.

You always be that to me.

Em/B

There is something very peculiar about the beating of our hearts;
To whom do we play?
And is our time well measured?
Does the timbre if our memories
Leave our thoughts with pleasantries?
Do the strings at our elbows and knees
Posses their own frequencies?
Or may we rest on a simpler fret,
And grant our bodies harmony?
I cannot fathom the key to every breath,
Though I will not refuse the symphony in death.
I think you for what little chords you played;
There is naught what is warmer than your smile.
I am selfish to lament I did not embrace more.
I know one day we’ll all reach our final measure,
Though I promise I will remember our song until the final beat.

Pride

No.

It’s fine, really—I get what you’re saying but I don’t think you’re listening;
I don’t need it,
Or you for that matter.

Just leave me alone, it’s all so much right now,
But if I can just get a breath, maybe I’ll write you again?
Or you can come see me,
We’ll figure it out — but I’ve really got to leave this town.

I think I’ll head out for a while,
Chase the fumes under the Sun.
I’ll build myself a new one,
A kingdom to reign,
You’ll rest on my forehead,
I’ll carry your name branded on me;
Not something I can wash or hide behind scars.

That’s it. I’ll lay the stones of my mistakes,
Held firmly by regrets.
I’ll lay my ignorance inside,
Furnished by my shame,
And on the worst of it all,
I’ll lay by my hate.

Just leave me alone. Didn’t you hear me?
I want to be left here to writhe
And solace in the company
Of self-defeating rhymes.
Maybe somewhere in pity between
I’ll hear an echo of my reasons,
But for now all I want to do is
Diverge.

To compress. To fall infinitely into myself and consume all that around me.
To gaze upon my empire,
Built by these fettered hands;
Bruises, cuts and dirt
Are all that I’ve got to honor,
To relish the court halls.

To stare out into the ruins,
And know Ozzymandius’ curse,
But I’ll find something in it yet.
For this empire is mine,
No others to burn the bridges—just me.

It’s the only beauty I’ve been promised;
To have the satisfaction of knowing
That I destroyed this land alone.

Constitution

So here I am again trying to understand the trench that I am in
Only the deafening silence to hum me along
While I commemorate every stupid thing I’ve done
I guess it’s a long time coming but I am here to meet the axe
Swung down with such conviction and force
Swelling somberly beneath every lie.

Why shuffle at the words if you’re bound to get hurt?
But it’s this kind of fatalism that abandoned me amongst my problems
Only the shadow of the moon and the calm laughter of the engine as
I drive nervously from them.

What were you even trying to do?
The echoes so familiar, an octave away from a memory
You made certain to bury
But
What’s the matter now?
Am I making you sick?
Making you remember the identity you abandoned?
Well, I can see your breathe but I know it isn’t from your lips
At least not the ones who were speaking
So ambiguously like obscurity covets integrity.

Is it suffice?  The mask that you made.
The porcelain you polish and wax at the start of every day.
I know your defense; as if they forced your hand to craft the mistake.
I know it was painful, traumatizing at least
But here you are spewing word by the beat
As if a meter could rid you of the numbing spreading out from your veins.

They were cruel, yeah,  they were stupid
But you were so much more.
Now you dig ravines and burn bridges leaving family and friends alike behind.
As if any sense of intimacy would start to stress the imperfections
And your strength would chip away.
What fortitude there lays within the rubble that wades across
Neglect and all those you refuse to see.

Do you feel resilient or can you hear the hollow
Drumming out from inside you
Where you abandoned all you were
To save the future the sight of blood
As you gasp for any kind of feeling now
That you let the defenses down.

So tell me was it worth it,
Do you finally feel strong?

Human

Just some chemicals and memories—
That’s what they’re calling us these days.
And I guess it’s half-right.
Painting silicon-pressed sentiments 
We put ourselves before our best foot
Can make it’s move.
But I don’t blame anyone at all.
I’d rather step than let myself fall. 

We’ve got those endless nights 
Where we can’t sleep
And those lovely friends we’ll never see
But a blot of ink is better than being lonely.
So let’s record what we can,
Keep your thoughts at hand
While every heart beats more than you can write.

We’ve got these stack of beliefs
And folded emotions we hang up on our wall.
Lying naked in the middle of all our lives
Trying to make some sense of what feels “right,”
The blind man knows not of the night in here.

So afraid of what we could be called
We find new skins where we can crawl
And pretend that we’re still human. 
But even now, puking out my lungs,
I can’t find a single reason why you can’t be loved.

It’s the forgetful mind of the hypocrite
That robbed us of where we’d sit
We when believed that we’re something more
Than just chemicals
And Memories
And trite, dizzy words.

The Undertaker

I have secrets and I have ghosts
And I’ve done my best to bury both
But they crawl and writhe beneath me
Reaching up to catch my bone
Leaving extremeties behind
Surviving on fear and ache alone,
Made my way across the river,
Soot sinking solemnly below.

The past loves the sound of its own echo
Wailing withered, written lies
That in light of my own failure
I might’ve sung a second time.
I kept their cries on slabs of stone,
Counted days and worshipped minutes
Just to remind myself that I’m alive.

But one crawled out from the dirt
To steal its breath from the land,
And drink its warmth from our sun,
To follow tears along the echoes
And sing my soul a softer song.

I abandoned all the ruins you left me,
Finding comfort on the asphalt
And rest soundly in the rain.
Reverberation found its way upon me,
To my throne within the gutter
Where you whispered our names.

I thought your face would tear into me,
Lay waste to all that I had made.
But as I opened those green doors,
I found not agony nor torture;
But the reflection of our shame.

You fell back into the mist,
As I relished in my sewer;
There is nothing left to miss,
There is nothing left to fear,
Though I still sleep beside my shovel
And wish there was something left to feel.

28 Days Later

The average ovulation of a female occurs every 28 days. 4 weeks.



It was never about zombies at all, just periods.