We picture life differently. You see what I see. We describe it especially. I give you more credit. Some phenomenon can’t be mentioned. You lean towards your own. If I told a man he lies, it might ruin him. If a woman lies, you might cater to her ego. Life is spinning. I keep pondering you—part aligned to disbelief. We see ideals, negotiating over truths, forcing certain beliefs—with humanity seeming perfect, in its imperfection. You read it. You feel it. As I asked another: What is the resolution? He was venting. I kept asking self-activating questions: What becomes the final cinema? The question lends towards some line of thought—while most aren’t debating resolution. One doesn’t look at a spouse and discuss the ending scene: to end is to depart, truer satisfaction doesn’t leave its sources behind. Sun beaten zinnias. Lavish cries from a mantis. Death kisses us each day. We love wisdom, we deny her cousin, deaths. So knotted on days, true fiction inside, to realize we see life differently. To know redundancy, to believe in change, I’ve picked my horses. Mauled by thoughts. Dewdrop beauty. To have hope for others; knowing, we discover our philosophies in unveiling ourselves. I lean into patterns. You lean into patterns. We see things differently. Too much emphases—in a given direction, proves a flaw. I think differently. To ignore patterns, we never would, to believe against deaths, we never would, and finding reason not to sink into utter despair—I believe this comes by temperament. The travail of labor, the fable of perfection, the story against imperfection—so cloven, such in nearness, so different, I wonder if we’re fighting against particular truths. If so, who’s lying?
