Maybe too resolved, a myth, too aloof, for fear, of
some nature, non-cute. Maybe too neat, not filthy enough, somewhat anti-human.
Maybe a narcissus, unbeknownst to self, where most sense it. Maybe afraid to be
intimate, leaning on masculinity, unknowingly sadomasochistic.
I’ve understood a mechanic: to speak it is to agitate it;
and most depend on perception.
Stairs
seem endless. Like rooms keep getting tighter. Like expectation on a safari.
No attachments—are
we still with behavior?
It’s
suggested—the womanizer is wrestling with the first woman; absentness creates
dysfunction; and to argue over normality.
Too heady.
Over berries and melons and lemons—the juice of souls
made to need alienation; by complaint to have life, by deficit to have fury, by
humanity to feel the sun rise.
At some
point, it seems, life became hypothetical: love, sex, religion.
So
much the wind blows to and fro—thunder inside, many reasons to presume
estrangement. More to feel awkward; less to rationalize; and senseless to criticize.
