Sunday, May 16, 2010

Wanting and still not having

Wanting and still not having

Raise a glass to the bitter repetition of life, the ceaseless struggles and stale, sickly-pale shades of moments imposing themselves over each other, blending together, becoming one...a life? The record of one existence? So that is what we have here at this point, fragments of painted scenes passing (more like always resident, never terminating) across the mind's eye: empty streets, shadows and lights reflecting in the rain, blind alleys - somewhere, at some time, always a descent, concrete gray. There is the attempt, life-long, to flee the niche and the cliché and the destiny, the fate, one's genetics and the other's expectations (interpretations that are like iron rigors of Roman law), and then there is the final exhaustion and the raising of arms and falling backwards into the cliché with something that is not even the specter semblance of passion. But who understands passion anymore? One must find life and love in the hidden corners. One must hide every breath away. There is the end that is expected, after all, and then there is the waiting.

So life...

Life...too rich and too chaotic, too powerful, too overwhelming. Life as a potential set of experiences that will prove to be too fears losing the self in a play of emotions, one runs in terror from the abyss of others' souls, from others' desires. One fears losing the self in the Other, in each possible becoming.

So hide away...