Mostly living through conceptions. Mostly a gift for the soul. Tender wools, abrasive suedes, ruminating over agriculture. In plaid understanding, mortified by the grays, too much to appraise, too much to grasp. Such morbid feelings, horrid stressors, unprepared for it; and Love looked ecstatic, carrying a crane, so deliberately, so cautiously; miles to skies, torrid realities, torrent actions, giggling the tears that fall. With life seeming indifferent, the observer impassive, to desire what can’t be reciprocated—pleading for what tends to suffer. Those by tinted woes, such cultural ingredients, an experience only afforded to humans—so inclusive, so tolerant—where most need an exclusive religion, an exclusive humanity. Never as it’s been for colored souls. And never as much growth as was demanded. We move into a reality, neither us nor others, in such a finality of behavior, to see each other and have nothing by insistence for one another, nothing compelling, pure toleration. Nevertheless, it seems natural, except for the want and prompting of what’s familiar—to have an eagerness there, with reluctance towards the unfamiliar—it seems natural—I might have missed something—it can’t be sheer color. It must be mannerisms, tension, and anxiety concerning attraction to the forbidden. To climb forever—a never ending sociality, a mutual contract, as it outlines fear, contending as we must, in survival of the fittest. To need something in contention, something taboo, with so many maintaining diverse legacies—the art of loving, the crocheting of hating, the tension, pushing towards something explosive. To ponder King Jr., his identity, to have loved beyond what sights denoted—to have a dream, to see little kids of various nationalities holding hands—to have lived as activist under God’s umbrella. The theology in the non-hatred. The best of life, when imagined. Such a song, developed on high grounds, serenading Christ, pleading for liberty, demanding justice. In the exchange we sense a sort of longing for the exotic, a tender human naturality, in the mystery we find ourselves lost and experiencing what we connote as existence. To have beauty in its magnitude, faced by ups-and-downs, with so many attacking the solitude one builds. It never goes uninterrupted. Cultures are interconnected, inter-constructed, such roses in time, such essence with observation—to possess in a mirror, all of life. If to get beyond mannerisms, if to see divinity, if to fathom anthropology, in an effort to cherish all of humanity.
