02/11/2024
Permanence is an equally daunting thought as it is comforting. For still being vulnerable to the concept, I cannot attribute a sufficient degree of maturity to myself. The dilemma is that monotony will slaughter me, slow and steady, ease me into the grave, take my hand and I might even walk down myself, but change will dig through my surface mindlessly and trigger old landmines, and I may not always stand to nurse myself back to sanity. I do not doubt my need for both, but I have been walking the middle for far too long, knocking on the door of everything lasting and running, grappling with the violent spirit of novelty and retreating to lick my empty wounds, never to lay down something of weight and promise, to settle in the ground or flee with the wind. What this tunnel in between is, I do not know, but it reeks of nothingness, of shame. My plight, my hamartia, will be that I promise myself impossible things. Impossible to attain, always in sight but never in touch, as impossible they are to live through, difficult, wonderful, overwhelming and suffocating. I see myself in warm-colored houses, where the paint chips off and the faucet is dripping, with my smile inside frames on the walls and my full truth on the table, bed, sofa, loved, accepted, welcomed, enough, and I recoil and regret and I thank my luck, give my everything, cut ties with Intensity and Passion, and curse the stars, and ask How and why? and Am I alive in this way too? I see myself with a name, something to consider, a labor of my own, resilient, capable, for myself, and I miss the warmth and the chance to be weak, and I miss feeling human and a taste of the oxygen age, and think every night before bed For what again? Why? Am I doing the right thing? Am I forgiven? I will live torn no matter what I choose, so as long as I choose I move and that is all that matters. No disaster or pain catches up to me faster than the next.
Comments
Post a Comment