my assignment: tell some sort of story [what it is makes no difference] using an alliterative sentence for each letter of the alphabet. Not all sentences have to be alliterative. Also, use a symbol of some sort.
i used to sneak secrets between the sheets when i was young. they were thin things, i could just as easily hidden them in a thimble. some stolen cookies from the jar or watching an unapproved program on nickelodeon. Negligible, next to the nasty ones i have nibbling through my navel-gazings now. authenticity, mainly, but in spiritual, and especially emotional forms. my intellect feels authentic, but would not be capable of analyzing itself anyway. back when i was still querulous, those secrets now appear quite quaint and quirky.
i used to lay under my linen, rustle and undulate through my undiscovered stockpile, and burrow down until all seemed unclear. mindfucking my mother calls it. mindfucking is when worry and woe writhe together and their whipcords keep me without action. but before back then, i was a bit too base and bugged to even think about action, much less brood it to death. change came, the only paradoxical constant, change always comes, and when it came close to me, i cringed; it didn’t care.
education made me a self-aware apparent. to each his own, or so they say, for me it makes no difference. first, death was defied, no longer deified, once i was out of death’s construction, its power diminished, things doomed need not be dreaded. this, my new secret, was not kept under covers, someone said the best kept secret is owned by everyone, so few listened when i told them though.
dreams came slowly later — a xenophobic xerxes played backbeat on a xylophone made of xylem — while i used lucky strikes to burn patterns through the cellophane of an old travelogue of persia. my what-the-helling form of comprehension woke me before i could. my lucidity is fraught with holes due to my inability to always distinguish between true dreams and real lies.
hopping into bed for the next round of secrets was my own body. only one i own, with no ornaments, in the original form, and i am happy with it. it pairs with my purposes perfectly, and is mostly a pal. what takes effort, enormous amounts for a small effect, is emotion. so i am jaded, jealous, a jerk, juvenile… just who isn’t at some point? but under the sheets my intellect has its way with emotion time and time again, mindfuckers.
happily, i hearken, hopefully without hubris, that progress is being made. i have been out of bed a bit more often of late. zealously zipping along, even if my zipper is down. i am trying to realize, rightfully, that rigidity and reaction alone do not have results. if i illuminate the illegible parts of my earlier ‘irrefutable’ logic, the result should be invincible.
farther down toward the front of the bed the sheets get furled in a fashion so funky that a secret might be rent in two. sometimes mindfucking fucks well. when this happens it is not grand, oh no, but gruesome and grisly. imagine a lake with fish languidly loafing in limpid pools, talking to each other through air bubbles. one fish decides to go up to the land to try and live out of water. the other fish watch, and wait, and the first fish does not return. well…it must have worked [fish are dumb] so one by one each fish leaves the water and croaks in the dust.
a similar even occurs when a mindfuck actually ends in an apparent result. it happens over and over, and dreams keep suffocating.
yes this yokels yearning yodels are almost over.
verily, i was and am not so vapid as a child and verbose as now, but masquerades are my victual. maybe as a knightly knave or a kamikaze kangaroo kibitzer i will appear next, kick me if this occurs.