Un-Filmed
I have much to receive, so much more to give. I feel something to gander, I fear an illusion. Any perspective seems viable. I do jest. In going to that place, in speaking about fire, we knead cadence, we crochet emotion. With all those weary reasons, to break through, to give all in the receiving of all. Life as it damages. Love as she parades. Such coquettish creatures. Wanting to sacrifice all, held back by all, a soul to its ideologies. So much hegemony—sighted on love, to give as long as it never aches. Moving passed amour; skating clouds, asking random shamans—looking towards sages, coming to a thread in science—to go deeper. Such swami chi, to have by sword, one reason to adore life. To have approached upon irregular grounds, to have impeded what I chased after, the face becoming witness to its confusion. Nothing short of a miracle—the mystery of skies, so much to make an appeal. And it would be horrible if unvetted: warding off gadflies, souls hating the elixir, with so much weighing on infinitude. Something light feels heavy; something heavy feels unbearable. To know what sunshine feels like, sold to an ideal, searching for one true measure, one artistic woe, such a remarkable archetype. A fresh feeling, as tides shift, through fierce torrents, knitting as we chance—aching joys, an un-filmed feeling.
