the world is small—the tales are
tall—the sadness is the joy, becoming the happiness. the fame is internal, some
exposition, some buckle—as it unlatches; the fury of the invisibility … time
uprooted, diluted, a fair loss, a hyper win—to learn about the ritual, the
meaning, trying to separate the mind from the body. with us—it’s pure love,
with others, it’s detached affection, while we try to ignore the habits we
form. no greater human soul. no grander scale. by the remarkable language.
coming into oneness. excellence made supreme. the skies would fall. the bread
of souls—into the myths we sing—like an allegory about men in a cave … teaching
a story, we need exposure/sunlight, we must seek to become illuminated; the
darkness, the shadows, the suppressed souls, keeping in a benighted state,
chain breakage is absolutely necessary—whereby, dependence on familiarity—would
first kill, rather than, embrace newness, light, enlightenment. the world is small—the
tales are tall—the sadness is the joy, becoming the happiness. the sensuous
insanity, becomes the regretted insanity, while it’s now difficult to sit in
stillness. saying so much—in saying so little—with so great a tug at, and
against, human inclination—the needs for the graces, the abuse of the needs,
the susceptible realities—vying for longevity—the battle of the roses.
