[DISCLAIMER: Random post ahead. Unlikely to make sense. Just things that are in my head and need venting.]
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Or at least, ones that are taking me there. They are spoken to me, from so far away…
“What you think; what you write is beauty in its least appreciated form… But, words make or break a man, and my dear you make yourself with so many words.”
Spoken through a mouth of black feathers, plucked haphazard from ancient dark birds from a desert peninsula.
Spoken in a dead but beautiful language of truths, only.
Spoken and carried from a land of things that is substantial only enough to remind a select few it remains, but ethereal enough to always remain elusive…the beauty and completeness of things that is ever out of grasp…close enough to invoke so many authentic thoughts…emotions…yet always set aside by what feels to be a vast, insurmountable chasm – not bottomless nor endless, but never to be, it continues to seem, traveled.
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I’m…so very tired of reacting..defending….dodging, escaping. Receiving what comes. Tired of being at the mercy of circumstance…fortune, luck, random causality..simple fucking geography. I scream to the sky, at no-one in particular: “Do I suit you, then, as a marionette? Is my dance…pleasing, enough? Are the strings I am so clearly attached to taut enough?”