Free-writing: Why do I love the taste of hate in my mouth?
Why do I love the taste of hate in my mouth? Because it’s the perfect seasoning to pain and fatigue. As much hate as I can devour, even more misery I can force on myself, and the more sexy my own blood looks to me. I devour as much as I can stand to consume. Who knows my total daily percentages? Anger or greed. I’m masking my tastes. My guilty pleasures. Guilty of what? Spinning in circles. I can’t decide, I can’t anything but… go.
Gliding across my toes to float to that thing I call beauty. That unicorn I chased in my youth and felt at times was nothing but the masochistic flow of life lived being life learned. We never know the end until it’s over and then no one can say they know from experience that it’s the end. The end is when we aren’t known. Or is it when we can’t know? Spin those feet in arching circles across the glass pond and ripples reverberate through my limbs and I grow into a tree sprouting limbs and leaves the colors of the sun and earth and the moon smiles while it sways with me wrapped in clouds of a shawl, a fancy snuggie, giving hugs to me and we. Be free.
Harvest and fields and the sweat of the toil and the time we return things to the soil. We plant and cultivate but all energy we have known comes from the sun. The sun feeds and powers in excess. Kryptonite. Human flight. The invention of ingenuity is congruently obtuse. My mind is the vanity of success in self, self success, self esteem and self dreams are what we make, what we take from the world and build for ourselves out of our own understanding.
Slight rewind even though time doesn’t stand still even when we beg in hindsight. They say its 20/20 and it feels so clear when we look to the past but it doesn’t last and we can’t control how fast it is. Its own thing and we are our own, although not independent from the flow of time we are not the proprietors of time’s effects on the events that take place in it, we just have to go. Standing still to understand something in perpetual motion is an exercise in self defeat. It’s expensive pageantry we can’t afford but seem to desire or require as we perspire about the undulations of sound waves we use to report our positions but we are never really at one place or ever have one face. There are vectors and living points but we get waylay-ed trying to define things in the context of one point in time. Maybe its a safety or security in feeling the hurrying of adding a label to a moment or an idea of the feeling and locking them in assignment to each other as if we have tamed or conquered them into our control and bent them to our will, but we can’t. We go. Don’t we know that we go? It’s a show about how we grow.