There is a secret.
It isn't very well kept, but it's like an ocean, where only the surface can be seen and the mirrored surface is a thin veneer separating sky from fathomless depth. I reach out for love so rarely now, and in the public eye perhaps I appear far too simplistic for my presentation to bear any likeness to truth. I leave the sign empty as I walk in the establishment of my psyche - and while those who come in with me know the truth - most assume it reads No Vacancy or Love Motel where all there is is simply a blank sign. Inside, I'm all truth, shards of glass and all, but outside I send messages in digital bottles that people sit around and try to piece together like a jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces. Maybe they understand that they aren't pieces of truth but merely artistic renditions of pieces of truth.
Maybe they don't.
Because it is a lie that I don't love easily. Perhaps there even I can't see clearly yet, perhaps I never will. It is entirely possible that my blindness is definitional. The places where the personally tied concepts of you, intoxication, and attraction meet with romantic constructs. Do I know where one begins and one ends? Are they even on the same spectrum? Does one half even exist?
Everything exists only because it has context. Meaning is no different, nor are definitions or boundaries. I made, therefore it exists. I seem to be able to break the fever, but it still lies dormant, like a gene passing through generations, improbable that it will ever be truly bred out. I see the clear lakes of your eyes, passing slowly and softly through the seasons, bright spring days with specs of sunlight, a promise of sexuality in the nightly shimmer of summer stars, the panic of fall leaves upon them, or the frustration and anger that the freeze of winter brings. I see all these things, yet my pragmatism has gained iron gauntlets to weight down my hands, to make them suitable for the building of castles. I don't regret, I don't begrudge my own decisions. I told someone that I don't believe I'm a hypocrite, and that I acknowledge the rarity of it. Is it hubris if you're right?
I'm happy with where things are. I choose respect and enjoyment over madness.
At least publicly.
I suppose the truth, the man behind the curtain blowing smoke and illusions, is that the wizard really is a conjurer. There, he keeps his lost souls closest to his heart and bed. Because that's who he is, no matter how much he wants the world to turn without him. Not unguided, but certainly without.
Written On: Mother's Computer
Maybe they don't.
Because it is a lie that I don't love easily. Perhaps there even I can't see clearly yet, perhaps I never will. It is entirely possible that my blindness is definitional. The places where the personally tied concepts of you, intoxication, and attraction meet with romantic constructs. Do I know where one begins and one ends? Are they even on the same spectrum? Does one half even exist?
Everything exists only because it has context. Meaning is no different, nor are definitions or boundaries. I made, therefore it exists. I seem to be able to break the fever, but it still lies dormant, like a gene passing through generations, improbable that it will ever be truly bred out. I see the clear lakes of your eyes, passing slowly and softly through the seasons, bright spring days with specs of sunlight, a promise of sexuality in the nightly shimmer of summer stars, the panic of fall leaves upon them, or the frustration and anger that the freeze of winter brings. I see all these things, yet my pragmatism has gained iron gauntlets to weight down my hands, to make them suitable for the building of castles. I don't regret, I don't begrudge my own decisions. I told someone that I don't believe I'm a hypocrite, and that I acknowledge the rarity of it. Is it hubris if you're right?
I'm happy with where things are. I choose respect and enjoyment over madness.
At least publicly.
I suppose the truth, the man behind the curtain blowing smoke and illusions, is that the wizard really is a conjurer. There, he keeps his lost souls closest to his heart and bed. Because that's who he is, no matter how much he wants the world to turn without him. Not unguided, but certainly without.
Written On: Mother's Computer