gas
I am very tired of writing letters to people who aren't yet in a state in of existence. My words are wasted on the ether, on the hypotheticals and the maybes and the nobodys. No one's coming, nobody's waiting for me, this is a solo thing. I'm no one's job. It's me. And I gotta make it out, I refuse to take place in the endless parade of those who didn't, and if I don't it will most certainly kill me dead. No one's gonna light the dark way out. They might point somewhere in the general direction. And yet I believe that life can be a loud protest in the face of staggeringly easy mediocrity. A person can be a living action to the chagrin of darkness.
The problem with all of this is that it's all just white people problems. It's not actual, literal problems. It's minutia and frivolity and it's the stuff white people gotta create to keep themselves good and conflicted
I could get very easily excited by talents that weren't mine, people who weren't mine. Still can, still do. It's often the night's highlight, a brush with foreign objects like uncomplicated eyes and smiles that shine as much as the person receiving them. And the love. Oh it is a ceaseless wonder how much love you can find in between two notes, two sentences, two words. It is but a vapor, but a vapor so sweet as to be intoxicating, a gaseous blanket that fills the air with a single simple truth. Watch this truth dancing in the air around you, a ballerina in love's heat, and watch it dance out your door.
There is no substitute for the gorgeous effortlessness that exists in the most intimate of relationships between two people. It is the most uncommon freedom, nothing compares. There is a beat and battered path, and a key to the heart of every person. No one's got total access, no one's got all the keys. The ones that do don't know it. The ones that do don't understand a world without such ease of entrance and exit into the lives of the people they have and the people they got. They walk with a fiery lantern, punching their clock in places that are, for the rest, unimaginable ecstasies. Unbeknown to them, they are proof of grace.
The problem with all of this is that it's all just white people problems. It's not actual, literal problems. It's minutia and frivolity and it's the stuff white people gotta create to keep themselves good and conflicted
I could get very easily excited by talents that weren't mine, people who weren't mine. Still can, still do. It's often the night's highlight, a brush with foreign objects like uncomplicated eyes and smiles that shine as much as the person receiving them. And the love. Oh it is a ceaseless wonder how much love you can find in between two notes, two sentences, two words. It is but a vapor, but a vapor so sweet as to be intoxicating, a gaseous blanket that fills the air with a single simple truth. Watch this truth dancing in the air around you, a ballerina in love's heat, and watch it dance out your door.
There is no substitute for the gorgeous effortlessness that exists in the most intimate of relationships between two people. It is the most uncommon freedom, nothing compares. There is a beat and battered path, and a key to the heart of every person. No one's got total access, no one's got all the keys. The ones that do don't know it. The ones that do don't understand a world without such ease of entrance and exit into the lives of the people they have and the people they got. They walk with a fiery lantern, punching their clock in places that are, for the rest, unimaginable ecstasies. Unbeknown to them, they are proof of grace.