I’m
late to rehearsal. I’m early to the grave.
This
insistence we feel where discomfort is irrelevant, just behave for us.
I could
churn in apertures or die so lowly but obedience determines me. but it makes
little sense, it hasn’t a foundation, but it makes people feel good.
I looked
at them. I monitored them. I elongated economics.
I beat
them. I said their women loved it. I was a great monster.
Something
after the years of men or something opposing women, or better, something siding
with inhumane activity. (to imagine what we smile at, or to imagine what we
endure, or better, to imagine what we believe.)
If religion
is key, despite all disputes, and I wonder, how are over a dozen denominations
the true path. If one is, by chance, this would vitiate the others; we must
read the source to discover inner beauty, but most are looking to master
something universal—something where others are in submission. This place in us,
this controlling space, and its need for dominance. but some groups are wise—they
fight against inhumanities, and they agree to the merit of other religions.
If one
treats with disdain, therefore, to demand praise, we then have this collision;
if not, we have this brain bug, this incessant ambiguity; something others
induce, while needing submission, despite the grief it causes—for I would
rather you dying than living on high!
Tell
us about mutuality.
This
is a rare creature. She lurks by commonalities. She speaks the same jargon, and
speaking to others is like agreeing to her own mind. She makes love with colleagues.
She drinks and dances with her reflections. She is variable or sullen or good
with her perfections; but she becomes uneasy, for mutuality watches, and it
passes judgments—where it becomes its hassles. Mutuality is ruled by men. They
use mutuality. They confront, and often, deny mutuality. This hard essence,
this feral kingdom. While we wonder why mutuality is sick. So, mutuality becomes
sullen and defensive. Mutuality is then hesitant of mutuality. Mutuality
matures. Mutuality becomes lonely. Where something becomes pressing: the black
skies the red clouds the burgundy moon; indeed, mutuality is akin to dissonance.
Tell
us about perfection.
This
beast of instruments. This internal harmony. While humans are designed to stagnate
or grow. By stagnation, all pleasures are permanent, but by growth everything
becomes its challenge; to have adored pretzels becomes to have distaste for
pretzels while a little distance makes one appreciative of pretzels. Such perfection
in a triangle, but a perfect circle is impossible, unless assisted; or to sense
perfection, while to hate perfection, where the eye that beholds is claiming
perfection. (Too much to analyze. Too much to disclose.)
