moods change, even
in an instance, they act by cues. it’s difficult to deal with insensitivity,
deeper signs, the mass of many inadequacies. missing a point, or overlooking an
angle, these become a mood shift. a person, in part, is a human reader—it’s
overstimulating.
we deny basic humanities
in an effort to assert our needs in which it becomes painful. ignoring a
person, despite their intentions, makes for an unpleasant response. we’ve
delicate hearts, musing incessantly, asking without mention—for acceptable mutuality—
endorsement.
even a
relationship, based in intimacy, something balanced, has initial complication,
where two train to feel complete.
it seems uncanny
how people permeate each other, like live wires, like stubborn fences, like
wide opened gates. a gentle nudge follows a sensitive thought, in a second, we
might shift. some are easier, they click with essence, most encounters were a
mistake.
bodies start to
show behaviors.
I was in myself
looking outward but I didn’t see other people. I would learn more as a social
element where others desire consumption. I thought one beautiful, too precious
for devouring, I was incorrect. I thought one difficult, this was in me, it was
a tale made known. I wander wiles wiggling in essence; I starve like winning
still adding pounds. in creeks we see faces, we count time, we reminisce upon
accidents. some movie in each person some galaxy in gears at some booth paying
tuition. needing to participate. needing social distressing. needing to feel
closer to existence. I’ve met several, in a line of interference, where it’s
possible to make negative inferences. as souls looking, examining soil, in
foreign atmosphere, asking for directions. one sees, debates inside, determines
if helping is lucrative. s/he is faced with questions, in a row of ideas/ideals—Should
I assist? if so, Will I need in return for giving upfront? we’re
confronted by something a little tricky, where one gives nothing, even a bit of
disapproval, expecting prostration. a bit testy. most tire of seeing it;
moreover, most feel convicted by accusation. what tries intestines, insomuch as
driving inspiration, to muddle on about something crucial—like human interaction,
human deeds, human intentions? one knowing me has stated I’m intentional, a
polite way of saying I’m deliberate, while she’s able to claim she’s
unintentional at times. so I’m unintentional at times. a dear fire! much
repudiated.
