What motivates upper echelon? I imagine a little sadness, permeating each layer. When a smile is haunted and brilliant. I wonder how we endure it, facing eyebrow music. A letter to it. Love was fretting. We keep pushing what should debilitate. I was never keeper of gates, atop a world, low to fields, mere slave of it. And Love was rapid heartbeats, methodic hertz, in over-proving a critical point. What is it?
A soul will keep giving. One will know for weaknesses. Driving a bulldozer. I only assume. I suppose. Love is cherished in a circle where souls are dispensable: beauty must be extraordinary; so, talents are of utmost importance, more for purpose. One would dine often, showing said talents, winning hearts, being praised.
Gesticulations. Off the cuff. Each embodiment meditated, played out in mirrors. Why have I said these things? That’s one’s life. Wire and worlds, right?
Unknown to souls. Unmet by reality. To be skilled. To feel neglected. To compensate over yonder. Such resentment for all concerned.
Earning it. To denounce what’s been earned. What if one remains silent? Years passing! And color awareness, Love at amour, to wonder why one isn’t trying. Disruption. He might share something with another. To hear it in dialogue; to seize one’s monopoly. I understand now. It means life, despite, it has a mission. I was passive about it. I felt, it should pass. The world feels alienated, alone, so close to an agenda. A right turn at an uneven philosophic; so curt at points, displeased with another’s down time—constant application, something insidious, knowing one has love for underground communication. I assume it means little to unsaid spirit, angered, it means life to some of us. A passing volt on a bad day, to glance over and say, Good Morning! It seems universal. To go for infinity to prove a point. Those women one prides: Do they warrant it? Disruption. Pushing. Waiting for something ill. Putting energy into it. Hoping to God!
