Each day has hassles. I never meant to dwell on it. It just seems natural, albeit, to come with discomfort. Inner opposition. Those hours in thoughts; it seems complicated. I would imagine art might save us; one soul might deliver us. Some feelings are on repeat. To see life, to feel moved—musing upon disposition. Trying to say much without saying much. Rather something different,
moving quickly, these are remnants, recompense, better, genetics; leaning into mechanics, reviewing science, moved by scripture—feeling like a soul, remaining silent, facing a fret, nostalgic for experience, those making life beautiful. Such functionality; such faculty. It was always there—deep in minds, to echo repetition, to remember guffaw, never doubted unison of experience—those longer roads. Ever in motion, so much so, something catches up slowly, like
gentle creeping, those inner mirrors. Ceilings giggling. Television on simultaneous reverberations. Walls mocking. An inner understanding—can’t pride it, can’t ignore it. To hear it; sitting in stillness; if not desolate than facing deserts; if not plagued than haunted; if not focused than obsessed. Surrounded by emotions. Framed in palms. Symbolic disposition. Hypnotic scars. To adore Passion, simmering in discussion, becoming aphasia, trying to hear all sides, to a soul’s
detriment. Upon what works, so isolated, accustomed to dreams, listening to overseers, the dreams we erect. Torn modalities, thinking about Love, so near to it, so scarred by it, numb at points; a spirit in composition, holding maxims, fevered at times, by a feeling. It becomes what life permits. Some parts are by condition, soreness of a soul’s existential, sky-watching, measuring clouds, facing some element, trying to bypass others, facing a great balancing act. Over nectarines, asking
questions, listening to gesticulations, searching for correlation, a difficult battle. Pantomime emotions through solitary channels, sudden into rhythm … Love is planting seeds, to imagine needing solace, an ancient curse, a blessed baseline. Grateful it’s motion, it might swoosh at times, to shift reality, a sudden position—to imagine it was purposed, at many pressures to believe otherwise. If crazed, we ask for ultimate perspective, we ask overseers to evaluate each other, to apply those same rudiments to poets, no need in lying to self, if seeking truths.
