assignment: alliterative allegory

my assign­ment: tell some sort of sto­ry [what it is makes no dif­fer­ence] using an allit­er­a­tive sen­tence for each let­ter of the alpha­bet. Not all sen­tences have to be allit­er­a­tive. Also, use a sym­bol of some sort.

i used to sneak secrets between the sheets when i was young. they were thin things, i could just as eas­i­ly hid­den them in a thim­ble. some stolen cook­ies from the jar or watch­ing an unap­proved pro­gram on nick­elodeon. Neg­li­gi­ble, next to the nasty ones i have nib­bling through my navel-gaz­ings now. authen­tic­i­ty, main­ly, but in spir­i­tu­al, and espe­cial­ly emo­tion­al forms. my intel­lect feels authen­tic, but would not be capa­ble of ana­lyz­ing itself any­way. back when i was still queru­lous, those secrets now appear quite quaint and quirky.

i used to lay under my linen, rus­tle and undu­late through my undis­cov­ered stock­pile, and bur­row down until all seemed unclear. mind­fuck­ing my moth­er calls it. mind­fuck­ing is when wor­ry and woe writhe togeth­er and their whip­cords keep me with­out action. but before back then, i was a bit too base and bugged to even think about action, much less brood it to death. change came, the only para­dox­i­cal con­stant, change always comes, and when it came close to me, i cringed; it did­n’t care.

edu­ca­tion made me a self-aware appar­ent. to each his own, or so they say, for me it makes no dif­fer­ence. first, death was defied, no longer dei­fied, once i was out of death’s con­struc­tion, its pow­er dimin­ished, things doomed need not be dread­ed. this, my new secret, was not kept under cov­ers, some­one said the best kept secret is owned by every­one, so few lis­tened when i told them though.

dreams came slow­ly lat­er — a xeno­pho­bic xerx­es played back­beat on a xylo­phone made of xylem — while i used lucky strikes to burn pat­terns through the cel­lo­phane of an old trav­el­ogue of per­sia. my what-the-helling form of com­pre­hen­sion woke me before i could. my lucid­i­ty is fraught with holes due to my inabil­i­ty to always dis­tin­guish between true dreams and real lies.

hop­ping into bed for the next round of secrets was my own body. only one i own, with no orna­ments, in the orig­i­nal form, and i am hap­py with it. it pairs with my pur­pos­es per­fect­ly, and is most­ly a pal. what takes effort, enor­mous amounts for a small effect, is emo­tion. so i am jad­ed, jeal­ous, a jerk, juve­nile… just who isn’t at some point? but under the sheets my intel­lect has its way with emo­tion time and time again, mind­fuck­ers.

hap­pi­ly, i hear­ken, hope­ful­ly with­out hubris, that progress is being made. i have been out of bed a bit more often of late. zeal­ous­ly zip­ping along, even if my zip­per is down. i am try­ing to real­ize, right­ful­ly, that rigid­i­ty and reac­tion alone do not have results. if i illu­mi­nate the illeg­i­ble parts of my ear­li­er ‘irrefutable’ log­ic, the result should be invin­ci­ble.

far­ther down toward the front of the bed the sheets get furled in a fash­ion so funky that a secret might be rent in two. some­times mind­fuck­ing fucks well. when this hap­pens it is not grand, oh no, but grue­some and gris­ly. imag­ine a lake with fish lan­guid­ly loaf­ing in limpid pools, talk­ing to each oth­er through air bub­bles. one fish decides to go up to the land to try and live out of water. the oth­er fish watch, and wait, and the first fish does not return. well…it must have worked [fish are dumb] so one by one each fish leaves the water and croaks in the dust.

a sim­i­lar even occurs when a mind­fuck actu­al­ly ends in an appar­ent result. it hap­pens over and over, and dreams keep suf­fo­cat­ing.

yes this yokels yearn­ing yodels are almost over.

ver­i­ly, i was and am not so vapid as a child and ver­bose as now, but mas­quer­ades are my vict­ual. maybe as a knight­ly knave or a kamikaze kan­ga­roo kib­itzer i will appear next, kick me if this occurs.