In the Form. Minus the flesh.

He wrote "academically," trained in the art of seeming objectivity. After years of writing in that vein, which the institutions demanded, he possessed a better, more intimate, ability to divorce his feelings from his writing at whim. Detachment and observation through separation, decompartmentalization station in his pressurized head full of nifty analytical (s)tools. His sentences would go from, “This film was awesome, very inspiring” to “Through careful camera technique, the film illustrates a unique adaptation of the American revolution by emphasizing perspective and angle. The actors supplement the movement of angles and corners through subtle yet superb interaction whereby the audience seem to be merely voyeurs into the intimate lives of the characters, nay, humans on screen. Anyone viewing the film will be instantly, if not highly likely, influenced by the powerful display and careful handling of both directorship and amazing acting which pulls the viewer in through a seemingly invisible gravitational pull, yet this merely, nearly, magical pull is but a superior handling of setting props and perceptual technique which manipulate the viewer into the directors' world through the periphery. Indeed, every move has been perfectly executed to effectively render the viewer with just enough stimulation so to carry them into the simulation. They do not merely view the film, the are drawn into it! inspirational! sensational! stupendous!” These were his days. Daze in deed. his wear and tear. 

He wrote in this vein for about 27 years. Words became wurds were werds were akward and linked to ward his lengua whereby it became carefully and gradually whipped into shape. English languish only. And when asked about how he was feeling at social events; his brain fried as it fired a multitude of synapses that chemically altered his biology, and so to the rest of the crowd he seemed “weird” as he stood still experiencing the subtle changes in his body. He was feeling ok, he'd say to himself before actually stating it, just to avoid being socially inept. But was he? He questioned. Indeed, what was he feeling? 

He reasoned that the given circumstances, i.e. party, music, people, wine, and conversation, indicated that he should answer in the the most neutral yet positive reply: he was ok. After all, the variables indicated that he should be feeling ok. Indeed, he would reach conclusions in regard to seemingly simple questions in this way. He'd reciprocate and repeat, “and how are you?” performing the perfunctory functions that reflected the appearance of movement yet covering the petrification he felt as he coalesced “into the crowd.” He was one of the people at the party. He was having a good time, he reasoned, and his reason reasoned that this was a reasonable response. He carried most of his days in this vein; 27 years, writing in the Academic skein. In the Form. Minus the flesh.

On his way home one day, he took out a note he wrote on a memo. He tossed the text into the ground and proceeded to grind the words into obliteration. He pulverized the memo into objective dust seemingly detached from any biases and/or emotions. Nothing seemed left but specs of ink on shredded pieces of paper upon the concrete; indeed, only the bare, critical and fundamental, parts were left. No pathetic fallacies. no subjective bias con_text. fair. reserved. preserved. observed. almost Zen like, something that had allow the feelings to pass, having "exprienced" them, now had flushed out the pleghm, and made it nice and neat and clean and bright and right and w... and thus, the memo had been stripped and ripped, as it lay shredded in tatters on the sidewalk. He took out his hand sanitizer and squeezed some of the sterilizer that he had mixed with drops of bleach onto the remaining shreds. Like a virus, the small pieces of text replicated yet grew larger and words started to formulate--culture, taste, class, refinement, objectivity, scientific, rational, etc.--until a wall became erect in front of him.

He took his lighter to this wall and started a massive fire. Afterwards, he started rolling around on the dirt. He low-crawled and simulated holding a rifle in the middle of a battle, in the middle of a theatre of operations. He was engrossed in his mania. He spoke in tongues, it seemed, but he was really trying to vomit and spit out obscenities. pinche! he spurted. chingada! He contorted on the dust, a cloud of brown around him. phu-fufifofa! kakaka! He felt alive, and pained. Rocks scratching his back. He started speaking in tongues: logicdictatesALAHchingadawithUrlogic!ayayaya!ay!are! arrre!yesma!nopa!nopal!nonopa!yesma!sisima!ay!ay!

aaaaaahhhhhhhyyyyyyy! he, at last, gave out, exhausted. Crying. tears. in the fetal. in the flesh. 

The ambulance arrived with their big red cross. Ave maria! said an old lady passerby, gracias a dios! As the paramedics neared, he motioned his arm up and down and his tongue licked his lips as his eyes stared at who knows' what he was seeing or imagining.

They calmed him with an an_aesthetic. They pumped him with Nitrious Oxide. Si Si Si! he repeated, "I can Si! yes, si_r" he said as his seemingly self-induced seizure of convulsion and foaming at the mouth began to receded. He was placed into a suit and tie. He had to report to a boss whom wore a white lab coat on a daily basis, which he found a bit weird, but did not question the boss's disposition, and he'd give status updates on his well-being. I'm ok, he'd report. I'm feeling ok.