PROPHETIC PERFECT TENSE
less human, more future compost
I am always in this constant, and often so right belief that I could pass as an oracle. My existence could make a sweet prophet, and that I can be contained in a glass ball that you want to throw off from the top of Mt. Everest. This belief lays on the foundations of the perfect reassurance that people will never be what they claim to be, and hence, I will never see them ever as complete people, and more so subjects of lying. This whole process is a lot less objective than it sounds to be, and a lot more torturous on myself than on the audience. I am almost always accurate on where things are going to go down, and while I do not believe in the concept of a singular path of life, I am, scientifically proven to be correct, that we all rot at the end of it all. Some rot more than others, and some rot before they’re due.
I play with the idea of death as if I’m plastic, basically immortal. I play with the idea of tragedy as if I am always supposed to be the composer of it. I am always supposed to make it mean something, as if a tragedy is a chance wasted for a mural.
The prophetic perfect tense is something I’ve talked about before, but it happens to be that it is now more applicable in my life now that I have already spoken about it. That is what I mean when my composition of something changes the tangent attached to the circular system.
The prophetic perfect states that one claims a future event and narrates it in the setting of the past, because of its unbelievable certainty. It is also how I live most of my twenty four hours. To live in the future because the present is too simple is almost a curse, but it saves you from the hurt.
That is until a cruel dart is tossed at your perfect ratio scoreboard, a dart that you do not predict. Then it rips you, and it keeps ripping your scoreboard. Your pride in always being correct is not broken by a wrong prediction, but with a shaded spot that you did not care enough to glance at because the ones fainting of heatstroke were a lot more curious.
At that moment, tragedy does not sound like a start of a new song, it sounds like a rough end to an existing one. At that moment, sadness is pretty fucking pathetic. At that moment, all numbing creams give up, leaving your body inked with tattoos that you were so sure you would adore in the future, burning in the present whilst you loathe them. A single change in the trajectory and you want to rearrange your bones.
My daze haunts me in present, like I always expect winter. Like I always expect the flowers to wither. I treat every hug of my father as it is the last, I treat every conversation with the one I love as it is the last, I treat every consolation as if it will not find its way to me ever again.
Relations exist like strings to me, and I can assume exactly when they are fragile. I rarely ever reach to snap and knot them together ever. So much for not trusting fate.
No matter how much we claim to exist in the maze of our choices, we will always walk on the ones which have petals laid for us to stomp upon.
That scares the shit out of me. Everything exists as a prophetic perfect tense, we just need to hunt the whats. In the doing of what I should avoid, is that what makes my misery so certain? In the avoiding of what screams at my potential, is that only screaming so it can be sure I will avoid it?
Fate has an ugly smile, and I can run from rivers, but does it mean I’ll eventually drown of thirst? Is my living in certainty fate’s way to ensure that everything in my shadow remains uncertain? Is my light for things my demise for myself?
ITS A SMALL ONE . AND ITS ALL OVER THE PLACE . THATS WHAT SHE SAID . ENJOY .
came back to read this again because it's that good :3 love ya aarna <3
❤️