Diacronic disasters

Yes. I feel the need to write down words to order my day, my mind my life. I am guilty as charged. And guilty of many other things left uncharged. I am the first to believe in the power of words and also the first to believe in their absolute inutility. Paradoxical, but pugnaciously true, nonetheless. What happens when there is no more meaning to those words, or the meaning slides haphazardly between cultural expectations? We humans and these powerful constructions of identity, "culture" and "power"... war abounds, forever and always. I cannot understand you because what you hold to be a basic truth is so removed from my expectations that it seems pathological. I cannot be what I am not, but I cannot stop wishing the contrary. The walls rise up, built stylishly around us into strangling labyrinthine mazes, you are the minotaur, and I am your shadow. I seep into the white, the azure burns into a sulphurous stink of nothingness, that scatters with the tip of your finger, in an instant. Yet to be determined. Yet to be disclosed in discord, or accord, a reward for our failure, a prize for the pin prick turned river running through you and me, coursing and wrecking all that lays in its path. A plume of smoke, a pristine snow, an icepick and a gun. The betrayal of self or the betrayal of another? How do you arrive at such a crossroads, the corpse hanging, swaying loosely in the breeze, as the crow caws, or the flow of air between us multiplies in the chasm that lays from here... to... there.