in our capacity—torn
from our latch, un-affective desire. as unyoked sufferers, contained in fire,
to witness your abuses. trying desperately, uncloaked, thus, naked, looking
vulnerable. by apogee of a squall, some storm, reknitting your morals. so
pulled away from decency, so much self-loathing, any love is better than absent
love.
was it a
rainforest, drizzling pain, mizzling frustration, angered to be with breath? so
dear to us as losing us, settling for pure disaffection.
muck, mire, this
is our reaping. passionless aggression, this is enterprise. so bolder in our
language.
there’s a dark
conundrum floating into a bright blue sea. it whispers facts over pleasures it
curses naïve ideals. plainly, deliberate affliction generates attraction. a
person sits in realization, unamused with self, running to return to hostility.
abused persons die each time, like listening to a saddening song, it becomes a
long voyage. some keep it on repeat, they feel anguish, it’s so liberating. as
hating some mirror, deserving some mistreatment, guilty, ashamed, drowning in
misery.
speaking of
undiluted love is difficult. most seem to have different definitions. in
essence, love is longsuffering for one person akin to suffering for Christ. we
give autumn for horizon. we give summer rain for clarity. we adore light in a
gentle/honest creature. I cannot understand true, undifferentiated, altruistic love—as
I try to deliver it.
ascian souls have
no shadow. it’s impossible. we live in imagination, consumed by perceptions.
sweet silent worries. coming again to you. confused about ikigai (reason for
being). sacred in adoring what’s fleeting at banks near rivers many red
falcons. so close to remembering you, a child in his crib, aunty must have been
nice.
