Amac or Cama (version 1)

I simply do not know whether Amac was right tomorrow when he said that art suggests life but does not duplicate it or whether you will be right yesterday when you say that life suggests art but does not attain it. How am I to compare tomorrow with yesterday? How is one to determine whether a woman, a song, a kiss is of his future or his past? I ween that Amac compelled me to into Stygian reversal, a paradise of my own making, the most luminescent vagary of Faustain Elysium. It is my belief that you, Cama, will cause me to delve deep into the squalor of my own creation, pain unbearable, noise ever excruciating, hunger all-destroying, death poised at the next corner. You, Cama, in pushing me into yesterday will tire me, aching, foul, fetid, decrepit, oscillating on the threshold of existence negative, writhing in the most exquisitely spasmodic pirouttes, running yet progressing not at all. You ask me – you demad of me – a semblance of equilibrium, a measure of the once sane, the unadulterated palor of existence unexamined. Yours, however, is not mine. It is you, Cama, who is the object of my loathing eternal, for you have deprived me of my tomorrow reached paradise, of seas by Zephyr calmed. Of this and so much more, more than I can ennumerate you have deprived me. Cama, you have renedered me once again wholly and utterly of yesterday – precipitous I plummet into the maelstrom of a reality which I do not countenance to pierce. You have wrenched from my very grasp the anticipatory oblivion of tomorrow – all a dream, all of it. No, it is you whom I depise Amac, you with your heinous duplicity, wand in hand, with promises of Nirvana. When dreams become reality, what, I pray, becomes of dreams? Misery or happiness, which is the more corrosive? Be gone, Amac of tomorrow and Cama of yesterday. It is I today. I am now, a now which is always and ever. Curse yes – but whom and what? Those who wrench from me my dreams or those who deprive me of the necessity to dream? But how can I isolate one single moment from the continuum that is i? And tomorrow truly I was A., nothing more. When the wand touched me I shall cease to be and you will percieve but a memory, a smile, a fleeting embrace, a quintessence of me or of that which was all to like unto me. As you say I shall be, I was to be, easy to find and easier still to forget – the lighest touch of the wing of a butterfly, free, dissolved, a kiss never returned. But this was tomorrow and you force me into yesterday. What am I then? Tomorrow's yesterday or yesterday's tomorrow? Amac or Cama – who is the more potent? Or is it you afterall? For truly heaven is in these lips. Immortality imposed upon none but those possessed of the most pronounced proclivity towards oblivion – heaven is in these lips – and perhaps it was, it is, it shall be. Never, ever, and yesterday – progression denied, transition negated – and but a kiss, transcendent ever, transcendent over, upon blackened wings the horrendous expanse of a most unwelcome eternity, an incogruous, disjointed abyss unworthy even of itself.

The world before me – now but a disjointed series of inverted contiguity, amorphous hues, taunts me, tantalizes me, invites my madness. My words of love the winds carry fruitless to the stars so that they flit in excellent fancy upon the all too ubiquitous breazes of eternity, formless, naked – a veritable, unappreciable juxtaposition of life and death, of ever and never, of Amac and Cama.