Untitled

- Ziggy Matsas, 2018

In spite of everything, I never

try. I play myself down and

down again, a ragged bag

blown into graceful and

disgraceful cycles of flight and

then being hit by

 

every other car on a busy

street ignorant of the

dangerous speed of life

passing me by. I am ravaged

and still made of indestructible

plastic modalities of

 

self-models that look

indefinitely unique with every

moment and yet composed of

one singularly identifiable

makeup that allows one to say

 

“look at that bag

tossed around” and not to

recognize the effervescent

spirit of a dispossessed

twenty-four year old boy. A boy

because a man finds his

purpose in being shredded

 

by a feral, sharp beak and his

shredded self tucked into a

thorny, mangled bed to suffer

in a claustrophobic dark place

until the period’s end.

 

And I waver in the light of an

agoraphobic space of constant

near-death and feigned rebirth

flux that renders my purpose

infinitely impotent but for brief

 

cherished glances like a quick,

white dash from the

impressionist’s oil paintbrush.

So often do I find myself entirely detached from

all’s momentum yet taking every grave impact

and collision from every ray of matter past

through my sad ghost dance.


Ziggy Matsas is an artist and writer of despairing commentary from the dark corners of ontology, epistemology, and neurophilosophy. he is currently working on his philosophy called 'Post-Truth'.