This
visual metaphor, through biomorphic visions, craving childhood innocence:
mother’s fiats, wrapped in lemon cakes, where little was understood. There comes a price, screaming through
knowledge, a vest of Ukiyoe; this floating reality, as fleeting as coffee, to
pistol this fetish for Truth. Pain is
pandemic, the stress of disease, as intoxicating as passion; where the palate,
once satiated, yearns for such nectar. This is a brain’s path; to relish the
jaunts; to mourn the impositions. There
are rivers of meaning, clouded in judgments, acceptable as blemishes.
Something watches; cleaving to concepts,
lost in a world of confusion. Often, we perish here: with lack of benedictions;
stressing for clarity; victim of our own apathy. Such social iniquity, sculpted in
turmoil—to veto analysis! How was he
errant—when models failed—a natural inclination for the good? He was thus unalloyed, a product of
excrescence, this thing that grows abnormally. We punish the unfamiliar. We need for it to look like us. So we ask
questions like: “Are you a free spirit?”
We hide our quirks, to dress differently—in the attic; where safety is
found, to maintain sanity, to exercise but a fragment of freedom; but what for
remedy: A world of deviance; An earth of lurid colors? I leave such thoughts, to speak of sorrow,
to forsake the obvious—for something more apparent—for something more pressing.
It’s this thing, captured in this need, where knowledge is twofold. We, thus,
ask: “Freedom or slavery?” With
freedom comes agitation. With slavery comes a frail garment of security.
The two alternate; where the former rebuilds
principles; while the latter roams a private island, only meant for a chosen
few. Freedom also says this thing:
“It's not meant for everyone?” Its life
through seeking; karma through thinking; love through charisma. We run a risk of agitating; where such is
recruited by some, while loathed by others; so more to a unique type of
freedom; where we comfort self, without intruding on others, while carrying a
sense of familiarity—founded in this thing, this sage of villains; this thing
called pain.
