The present belongs to remembering, the future to projection,
the past to memories. Tall waters, walls made of helium, rising into
atmosphere. A soul is given a moniker, a heart filled with pressure, a battle
to survive. I’ll be a liar, asking for a pardon, if ever to lose one drum; I’ll
be a miracle, fighting against elements, if ever to rebuild interior. An insane
crush, similar to obsession, with violets upon petal droppings; coming to rain,
sipping, palms full, longing for sunrise. I read concerning “The Unhappiest Man.”
He’s one living forever, hoping in something unattainable, his reality is
fraught by wishful thinking, one struck by death is happier. An extreme
position—the unhappiest is struck by his present tense, unable to reflect on
his past tense, and too disenchanted to create a future tense. Happier is he
able to remember, he fills his present up with memories, and hopes in his future—a
most wretched man, unknowingly, better is knowing life is fraught. We desire warmth, hope, consideration of
the good—if to reason, if to feel, where gravitation is towards the heartburns,
the mixtures, the trombones making melody. I lost a piece of self in his
literature. I snapped into focus. It can’t be what, for many, it is … the
deaths, the miseries, life is hurting. The wretched man is living. The living
man is blind. Freedom belongs to vision, triumph, moving through reality. Pain
is false happiness.
