Embrace the body's natural longing for a happy norm. It's the way a step takes place, a collected pacing that is alluring and energized... And all resistance against the untimely death of a leisure lap. I've sworn an oath to uphold in subjective tones, but the worthy object is the daily one. It is the one that mends in cascades of introspection, and owes itself to itself as pride would without the taint of sin. The happy norm is the utopian sense of bounding unobstructed and it moves on and on in this sullen world.
We would cuddle often together in mutual admiration, each inspired by the other. Plastered off our desire and nuzzling comfort to avoid the day. Well, what of places to go and things to see? We break once or twice but a cold vacuum stills the air and harms the void. No, no, no..we won't leave this; there's none other. What a picture of the future, this present, an idea I'd put into song. I hope that we might sing this song together, and let it echo through the chambers of our hearts.
It's peculiar the way that carrying out can usher in: Burdens. I've seen a swell of burdens carried out the door. Burdens that fill bags-- literally fill bags-- beautiful bags that sat at cross purposes. I saw a beautiful being tote those beautiful bags, swelling with burdens, out my front door. Such a sight and such a sensation.
I do not believe in the cheap trick and I would not say but that it needs to be said: far more unsettling than the predictable end is the reflection of us as we live.
The mirror woes and the mirror waves, present unsettled constitution in sedentary haze. Poor boy! Poor us for living. That he might know pain and pain alike, and that hate is forgiven. In every moment a reflection. In each a rattled nerve less sense, scant affection. Poor life! Without meaning nor worthy lament. Grant that we might blanche, not persist and persist; yet from birth defiling only innocence.
Heed the comfy word friend and let it settle upon your ear. For calm and easy rests the mind, blessed with words of softest hear. Never mind you, life and struggle, nor burden full and great. For you have distractions mild and aplenty, to occupy your fate.
If you seek relief in the transient balm of your age, you will note the whimsical fury of the present and the thorough disregard of your effort. Contrast, then, the stark and fleeting with the perpetual ease of the will to forge a new meaning in your time, in your space; meaning that will envelope the I in an inimitable way. The goal of any person: the call to reason.
Count me among your many, but count me not at all. By skin, or taste, or refrain I am but my own. But by breath, and life and wonder? Consider me your brother. I hope to share the space of ours in peace. Though I may be quiet and oft reserved, I am peace. Never will you watch my movements, for they shall not hurt you.
Wednesdays are like come-ons. Tempting while I blush and engulfing me in the spirit of madness. The good spirit (sans spirits), a phantom release of pleasure. Free from the escape, unencumbered by the echo of days just passed. Wednesdays are to me an image ripe and pure. The vixens of the mid-week impelling my vocabulary, nay, my gravity! Altering the force of my axis and wielding me with naïve joy. How sensitive and sarcastic of me to fight an unearthly invitation. Like the first cynic, shall I lie with the dogs? Or open free and wide the lung space I'm apportioned and open, VASTLY OPEN, those breathing apparatus; while owning the best of myself on the best of my days? A question to be sure, but one of obvious resolve.
The irony of human suffering along the sliding scale: you are forced ever outward by centrifugal forces. The clarity and peace of the origin an irreducibly tiny part of your once effervescent nature. Breath now, the musty air of time everlasting. Taste the staleness of the fragile identity. And in awareness of yourselves, may you find the peace denied as you press ever outward.