Mere

[Inspired by Yevgeny Zamyatin’s We and a Vladimir Nabokov quote]

But isn’t it in the forbidden apples and crossed boundaries that we find a pleasure that is otherwise unreciprocated in that which is given in good faith.

We are constantly craving for the wrong.

We long for something so ephemeral and surreal that it is almost unlikely to be existent. And yet we bring it into existence. From instincts and desires to justifying trespassed lines, we are capable of reasoning in the most intertwining of branches. We can create and destroy at least, we believe we can and so we do.

But we are not infinite, we are not the origins. We are not even close to the beginning. And yet we choose to give ourselves self-acclaimed power to etch the endings we wish for in stone and other definitive metaphors.

Human nature is not existent, it is a state of nature that is in constant flux complying to whatever is wanted most. The world is not developing or moving, in fact its only motion is in the form of inconsistent deterioration. And given the choice to live again, we would still choose freedom over happiness because we are not bound by chains, we are bound my limitations of perception.

What we do not wish to perceive, we eliminate. Like the Gods of our mind, but rather it is the mind that is the God of us, we tend to be self-perceived as our own masters. As though power, whether of beauty or of intelligence, being so easily self-acclaimed is a self-attributed characteristic.

We are only dust and stardust that is so aesthetically suspended in space it tends to overgrow the expansion of the space-time fabric. Dominating both aspects. But dominance is not in the colonisation of space, it is not the British occupation so easily relinquished years after,  it is the French cultural impact that is so eminent it is never ultimately relinquished unless by a stronger and more dominant culture.

And like cultures, ideas fight until the greater and the more dominantly, whether accepted or founded, overpowers the rest.

But we are not ideas,

we are only mere manifestations,

so why do we occupy so much space,

as a form of something,

that is greater,

and that we can only so closely approach,

and yet never truly intersect?

 

The Likelihood of Love

I wanted to write about you. Day after day I’d sit down and nothing but blankness would ensue. I was possessed by a fascination of unknown dimension.

I saw through your flaws. I was so sure of who you were. I think I was wrong, I’m not so easily so. Sure, some unpredictables make their way through my mind but not by so much. It almost seemed like this one variable I was never sure of. Every month I’d look back and remember how old conversations never felt the same as now. Every once in a while a different color blinked, it was like getting to know you differently.

Not completely new altogether but a little more uncovering made it seem like change. I was coveted with the unconsciousness of how I felt. Whatever it was, I felt it intensely, like anything I felt or did.

It was no surprise how I turned the image of you into an obsession. Something god-like, gold-like. You were the medium of my present.

It felt comfortable but never so. Open but not on all levels. Forbidden but enabled. Silent but filled. It was love, but not so much.

Oh I’m only on my first journeys on the exploration of your skin. Your veins hidden. Unmask yourself so the fascination of curiosity can be done with. If it goes beyond this, rationality will kill me for being so tender with my emotions.

Don’t go, not yet, please don’t.