After the crash

Nicole Hennessy

Computer crashed. Files gone. No sound, just silence.

My patent-pending limbs insist upon collapsing, quickening decomposition. You are always until only energy.

Abandon fate. Find that chaos cannot be confined to instances decided upon by freely functioning human intellect.

Unavoidable, kamikaze circumstance.

Picturesque examples of disaster progressing. Series of hours siphoning seconds from limitless boundaries of thought.

Arbitrary boarders separate where I am from where I am not and I can wander, if I so choose, but lost is an attestment to failure and ostracization the result of indifference.

Apathetic modes of mind-bending linguistic nuance vaguely articulated. My free-falling frame of reference contains no specific image. I imagine its evolution resembles motion itself.

Elapsed chapters of Allen Ginsberg’s, “unpublishable private literature” encased within the debris of our own.

Blatantly self-serving fixation on survival via abstraction. Incomplete capacities of persistent want and need.

Cities composed of inaudible relinquishment of soul. Systematic relevance. Versions of sorrows in retrograde motion as passing are portions of content. Swarming strangers afflicted by symptoms typical of capitalistic dread. Their faces are my own. We cannot save them from virtue. Assist them in fixation.

So staggering are our consistencies that we remain in the face of insistence, alone. We are separate. Often, I await one single syllable, only to find, lingering on my tongue, words I can’t pronounce. Dialect I have already digested. Limits of vocabulary rearranging recollections dependent on illusions of individuality. Counterfeit actualities.

Beautiful, unarmed smiles forgotten. Line by line, inventing me, I am imploding and entertaining the idea of possibility. Perhaps a subjective conformity we comply with.

Waste limitless time just breathing and think of spinning too slowly to care. Indulge in the fluctuation of exactitude. Sleep sound.

Silence is a warm, strange bed infested with alarm clocks. My function is to fade into the archives of memory. So, as my ever-elapsing solitude sinks into your soul, I can do nothing more than exploit the snooze button.

Nicole Hennessy is a senior magazine journalism major and columnist for the Daily Kent Stater. Contact her at [email protected]