Confessions

We wanted much, taken to insanity, living according to dire urges; this vehicle of waves, to gauge a feeling, in search of fear; that chronic essence, to monitor guilt, that second to pause. I resisted riches, with time enough, to build this pendulum; steady at practice, at once, to disappear, a rarity of natures; while gone that area, but found by spirits, those wandering remote valleys; to know perfection, but a gesture of arts, evaluated by psychs; where something lived, to see it in motion, this thing of several hats; to poke around, to show a glimpse, to awaken that present person. We take to caution, as torn through sights, a liquid contour; to ask by gesture, “But let me see,” a psych on display; as something dangerous, but steady at odds, to oversee with contentions: that miracle mind, to have died so often, omitting as necessary: this cash aloofness, so close to cherish, this thing a name in kingdoms; to vibrate life, at odds to feel, while close to unbelief; but must we try, this sky of feuds, to realize a kindred soul. I’ll tell a secret: If one sees self, as clearly as sunbeams, than one sees others. It’s a vacant light, at tears, a message, streaming through mental traffic. I used to love it, this thing of dimensions, as now a cautious warrior: speeding as to slow down, this inner meditation, my words languishing; this empty fullness, this somber satire, this vest of paradoxes; as hell with levity, for all is sacred, this life a vessel of traumas. It tore his soul, to lose partnership, as love sought freedoms; to exchange words, a con in his eyes, this thing of monitoring gestures; to speak freely, as does a child, peering at his reflection; to see her eyes, gauging a miracle, refusing to be kind; for this is life, those heavy hands, pushing beyond atmospheres; as broken parts, even shards, tearing into spirit-flesh. I find a truth: this thing of behavior, it’s never mastered, while to ponder we see. I’ve become a child, too bright too win, on that very plateau; as sight to mind, this furious dimension, as truly an obtuse savant. I must explain: some are bright, in a particular area, while lacking in essentials; this needed thing, as to function brightly, where one sees to adjustments. I feel this gulf, as to see this passion, to move as one gifted; where others flourish, that inner genius, to captivate dimensions. Its sore this light, shattered to mend, racing to slow down. If but a moment to breathe, to see as she lives, this vessel at war with pains; to feel as I feel, to maneuver gently, shifting while turning through conventions; that inner foundation, to see as Beethoven, this crazed example of Mozart; while musing through Kierkegaard, or dancing with Russell, this practice of reading Confessions; that shivering soul, so great as falling, this need to evolve. I’m merely a man, so gone in ways, rushing as to find this inner person; with needs to pause, as gathered in fragments, to part a watch for analysis. It shouldn’t be real, to have lost so much—a man to his journey; those private moments, privy to insanity, where compassion overwhelms.