~{●︿●}~ The Death of Anime Summer ~{●︿●}~

My aspirations were eviscerated before they even commenced. The frayed mode of my existence bleeding out like a rotten aorta. Days of late night Aku no Hana bliss eclipsed by the echo of sub-muted cries. I didn’t even make it through the sky-blue furnace of Terror in Resonance — life forced out of me by this shattered blue world. This is what it felt like to not even hear the duration of a theme. It wasn’t long ago that I could count the episodes on my torso. Flake seasons off my chest like dead cells. Midnight Lain, 3am Texhnolyze, 7am UCC/menthol contemplation all too resonant after the images were spoken for. But not now, now not forever.

When the headphones are placed on the table, when the imagery becomes still, I enter a trancelike state. One inhabited by the scent of sandalwood, one where my consciousness is wrested un-derwater, dragged along metamorphic rock-forms un-til it is lifeless & stunted. It’s better to not think of the things that night could have been, only the things in which it is not. The solitary way forward is to distort the meaning, to manipulate the output’s interpretation, to firmly weld reality shut. You see, it starts with the eyes. Your portals to the world must become adept at the art of un-seeing. Vision manifest as corpse.

Laying supine in the caverns of my manufactured mind, I hallucinate apparitions of my previous mise en scene to survive.

—Processed cicada chirps

                                       —washed out urban ambience

                                                                                               —tactile public flora

          —all flowing from channels

                                                                                                 capacious within ~

To reach the catacombs of nostalgic nirvana, to somewhat resemble the moments that reverberated in an un-bridled epoch of <(●ω●)>, sometimes you’ve got to shut all emotion off. Confronted with the throes of the mayadere, an earnest haven of content is necessary to forge forward through the domestic storm.

Un-able to thwart tides of responsibility, antagonised by the realisation that you are the only one, un-willing yet too moral to make yourself un-available, you pretend to be reptilian, like a statuesque abrasive replication girt by lagoon, though you exhibit too much heart to selfishly un-hear. The echoes of fidget warfare never-end, the commencement of a world steeped in chaotic epidermoid flux the norm of the now. Sense & touch annihilate tender moments of iso-heat. I death-kiss good-bye the previous constants encapsulated by the intimation of anime summer.

But what if I fall into a halo-glimmer? A moment within reach where I’m able to finally close the door?

To put a stop to

                                  —time &

                      —give this new era


                                                                                                        —definition ~

I’m not certain my Self can un-do the memories of death. But if I do, I will return to the comfort of crenellation, the precipice of my media-saturated known. The one that gave birth to my essence.

As error subsides, as silence takes hold, I can see the faint wisp of an answer in the slithers of coruscating opaline. The stone’s vision expressly detailed below the filter of an awaiting ripe moon. Animated expectation can re-commit to its gentle stranglehold. The headphones can be re-inserted. The rendered cerulean mist of humid night can be gently un-paused. The new, now, very close to distinguishing the joy of the old. The inner Self un-doing the terminal endurement where it rightfully can return.

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Dale Brett