In the gleam of an eye you can see the misfortune, the pain, the agony, the joy, the triumph, the suffering, the prosperity. With the tap of a finger, feel the vibrations carry like wind through mountains, over plains, across rivers, into the sea. Have a sweet heart, and genuinely good intentions. Delve deep into the treasures stored that have been long forgotten, and leave a sugar trail behind you. Make love like love is, like love will always be; bona fide endearment. Falsehoods lead to defeat in the end and redemption falls short. Popularity is a contest in fictitious lives of empty tanning salons and catwalks caved in by time's wretched handle on the way bodies form, expand, deflate like birthday balloons after a month. Honest beauty. The game is simple and shallow. Shallow as the waters in the tub while scrubbing yourself clean of the sins bestowed by generations by generations by generations of living with distractions. The joke is on us, the world is on our shoulders because we, as a whole, put it there. We finance our own individuality, and pay taxes on our persona. Because if money makes a human, surely, a human must make money. The further we go into our ritualistic hunger and greed, the more we lose our innermost crucial dwelling space. We relapse like drug addicts without the dope, and recoil into the web of comfort. We put our physical ease before our physical needs, and we sink. We submerge ourselves in submarines of a predestined tragedy. We leap from person to person, flesh to flesh, trying to find the mirror image of ourselves that, doubtlessly, ceased to exist once we forgot the genesis of our being. Our tears have transformed from water to stone over centuries of two-faced heartache and golden ages of big bucks and fancy garments. Ruby encrusted whatchamacallits and diamond doodads. Pearls upon pearls wasting away, no longer a secret to the seemingly infinite sea. We kill and collect, take and forget. We thank those who thank us, and rapidly lose respect. Our mortality is glamorous. Being bashful is beautiful. Looking young is overrated, and wisdom is worthy, so think less about the wants the cravings, the yearnings. Think about the necessities, and the way you develop, learn, die and perish into the damp, cool earth. None of us win. None of us are a cut above anybody else. We live, we die. It's the in-between that we have to digest.
Monday, August 9, 2010
In the gleam of an eye you can see the misfortune, the pain, the agony, the joy, the triumph, the suffering, the prosperity. With the tap of a finger, feel the vibrations carry like wind through mountains, over plains, across rivers, into the sea. Have a sweet heart, and genuinely good intentions. Delve deep into the treasures stored that have been long forgotten, and leave a sugar trail behind you. Make love like love is, like love will always be; bona fide endearment. Falsehoods lead to defeat in the end and redemption falls short. Popularity is a contest in fictitious lives of empty tanning salons and catwalks caved in by time's wretched handle on the way bodies form, expand, deflate like birthday balloons after a month. Honest beauty. The game is simple and shallow. Shallow as the waters in the tub while scrubbing yourself clean of the sins bestowed by generations by generations by generations of living with distractions. The joke is on us, the world is on our shoulders because we, as a whole, put it there. We finance our own individuality, and pay taxes on our persona. Because if money makes a human, surely, a human must make money. The further we go into our ritualistic hunger and greed, the more we lose our innermost crucial dwelling space. We relapse like drug addicts without the dope, and recoil into the web of comfort. We put our physical ease before our physical needs, and we sink. We submerge ourselves in submarines of a predestined tragedy. We leap from person to person, flesh to flesh, trying to find the mirror image of ourselves that, doubtlessly, ceased to exist once we forgot the genesis of our being. Our tears have transformed from water to stone over centuries of two-faced heartache and golden ages of big bucks and fancy garments. Ruby encrusted whatchamacallits and diamond doodads. Pearls upon pearls wasting away, no longer a secret to the seemingly infinite sea. We kill and collect, take and forget. We thank those who thank us, and rapidly lose respect. Our mortality is glamorous. Being bashful is beautiful. Looking young is overrated, and wisdom is worthy, so think less about the wants the cravings, the yearnings. Think about the necessities, and the way you develop, learn, die and perish into the damp, cool earth. None of us win. None of us are a cut above anybody else. We live, we die. It's the in-between that we have to digest.
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