there is no territory here left undiscovered. What has been imagined, has been done before...
and now only compassion exists in the memory of forgotten song.
I watch the passerbys, those who gravitate toward their kind. And diminish a little while longer when on the streets I seek but do not find.
This comfort,
It must be bought; here in this world. The rules are your money determines your worth.
Who made these rules anyways, contradictory and complex?
Don't we know, we all share this pressing similarity.
We seek the rhythm in all things. We yield, in the same way as the violin string.
Does your heart not compress and bleed to the songs of yearning? It is the oldest human memory. This yearning.
So familiar and intimate beneath our breasts.
I awoke this morning to watch the horrors of political riots shown in a documentary during class and felt my stomach writhe with anxiety. I have hit my capacity for the unending threshold of pain.
Show me beauty without suffering; has it ever existed?
The two are lovers, and rejoice in their birth of these creatures. Can you guess?
We are their children, in favor of one parent over the other. We, who continuously deny our pain and cling instead to beauty. As if the two are separate, in truth! That they understand a level of devotion beyond our comprehension.
Some of us attempt to grasp the concept of pain and pleasure with infant capacity. We direct our knowledge in mockery, capitalizing on a fragmented understanding with sexual sadism role play.
But what is the true image of suffering in this cold country? Without the gentle hand of beauty to soften the blow, there is no reason for this. No desire to endure. Only the screeching halt of silence that deafens ears born for song.
I beg for beauty to surround me in times like these. Where the cold consumes my language that wants only to illustrate love. I lament in my primal instinct to survive, when my mind finds some pleasure in the insufferable pain.
We have conditioned ourselves for this, a false sense of relief.
Perhaps this is why our arousal peaks when we have lost what we did not want when it was ours.
A lover tastes so much more sweet with parting's grim release. Those footsteps, all the more wanted
when they walk the other way.