We
imagine silence—our voices stranded in ether, unlike to none; where ghosts
tread, that secret feeling, embedded in rain; to drip—as a flaming faucet, to
feel heat and sneeze. It’s a hay fever life, to have learned joy, to have
learned pain. We relish more, and enjoy less, this reality in our spines. A
smile carries something—for the keen of eyes—this something delusional, this
fraction of personality, where it screams at ceilings, this cultured
discontent. Our chase is radical—when life was milk and cookies, to have
evolved in wisdom, skating through furies, that closer to calm, that closer to
acceptance; to have lived so young, peeking at this brilliant light, as
something dearly at truth; at which, is nausea, this dread of life, these
existential jumping-jacks; to see the marble scream, as tired of its colors, as
tired of its station—to know for death, as incremental madness, to have that
one moment—as chasing that high, where it
seemed so good, if not for catastrophe. It becomes a presence, absent at
war, tugging at photographs, to distort images, to repeat a phrase—something
that traumatized us; to have this feeling, to feel it subside, as to enjoy mirages.
It’s a rare moment, as blank from self—to invest in calming thoughts; this
something deliberate, more so than dreams, a friend of a mystic-storm; where
joy is frequent, to manage this balance, as pursuing our horizons—as deep the
atmosphere, this inner locomotive, to see the insides outwardly driven. It
becomes truth—this uncanny essence, as to treat as treated within; to silence
dialogue, as the wits to blossom, a letter on a petal; to enter the desert, as
to plant a fountain, as to witness a triumph. There’s a warrior’s mind,
filtered through courage, to see joy and seize it; as clouded to facts, this
inner mechanic, to learn as we persevere; for life is motion, a series of wars,
where often the outcome is love; to know for fragments, as every nuance a star,
to have and hold and raise and rise; to invert the trauma, to find a medium,
whereat, rejuvenation is essence; to revisit truths, as to examine an
objective, informed through trial and error; where love empowers, though the
tears may fall, threshed through contemplation.
