I am ready to write
When hope blooms where hope has never grown, it is time to be wary.
Reincarnation: an idyllic concept, seemingly utopian. After death, there is a rebirth, a chance to right your wrongs, to reach beyond your former boundries and find contentment.
However, what if life after life, no matter the paths taken, the result is always the same? I don't mean death of course... while death is always varying, it is always constant. Whether you're shot in the face in cold blood, or you get into a car crash and fly head first out of your window into a bullet that just happens to be aimed straight at your face, death comes.
Yet if in each life, if you believed that you could succeed where before you failed, and always fail, what then?
As life drags on, we each become victim to the demise of hope. Life has a habit of being that Korean bikini-waxer. When the hair is deemed to long, it is violently ripped away. Only to grow back and be ripped away once again.
Yet an immunity builds up. Each waxing the pain becomes less noticeable. We know what to expect, what will happen, what we will ultimately feel. It's no orgasm, but what cannot be changed can be endured.
In matters of the heart it is the same. That first time that hope is razed, it is the superlative of painful. Painful's bigger brother, the full horned Billy Goat Gruff. Yet as the troll under the bridge, we begin to learn our lesson and focus on the weaker. The optimal situation is gaining pleasure without pain. Optimal situations don't exist.
As we feed on the weaker goats, we begin to cull them. Until the pleasure gained is no longer suitable for substanence or the weak become no more. Therefore we move to the large goats, the ones out of our league. And right as we are so close to having them in our murky lair, we are gored by reality's curled horns (how you're gored by curled horns, I don't know, but it certainly sounds good).
Jackie Robinson could break league barriers, but trolls are no Jackie Robinson.
Everytime it is the same mistake, hoping for something too great to contain, lusting after what can never be. But in this case, it was worth it. She was worth it.
Thank you for each day of perfection you gave me. What you made me feel is beyond compare. All I have for you is admiration and this love. I wish you happiness in your endeavours.
Reincarnation: an idyllic concept, seemingly utopian. After death, there is a rebirth, a chance to right your wrongs, to reach beyond your former boundries and find contentment.
However, what if life after life, no matter the paths taken, the result is always the same? I don't mean death of course... while death is always varying, it is always constant. Whether you're shot in the face in cold blood, or you get into a car crash and fly head first out of your window into a bullet that just happens to be aimed straight at your face, death comes.
Yet if in each life, if you believed that you could succeed where before you failed, and always fail, what then?
As life drags on, we each become victim to the demise of hope. Life has a habit of being that Korean bikini-waxer. When the hair is deemed to long, it is violently ripped away. Only to grow back and be ripped away once again.
Yet an immunity builds up. Each waxing the pain becomes less noticeable. We know what to expect, what will happen, what we will ultimately feel. It's no orgasm, but what cannot be changed can be endured.
In matters of the heart it is the same. That first time that hope is razed, it is the superlative of painful. Painful's bigger brother, the full horned Billy Goat Gruff. Yet as the troll under the bridge, we begin to learn our lesson and focus on the weaker. The optimal situation is gaining pleasure without pain. Optimal situations don't exist.
As we feed on the weaker goats, we begin to cull them. Until the pleasure gained is no longer suitable for substanence or the weak become no more. Therefore we move to the large goats, the ones out of our league. And right as we are so close to having them in our murky lair, we are gored by reality's curled horns (how you're gored by curled horns, I don't know, but it certainly sounds good).
Jackie Robinson could break league barriers, but trolls are no Jackie Robinson.
Everytime it is the same mistake, hoping for something too great to contain, lusting after what can never be. But in this case, it was worth it. She was worth it.
Thank you for each day of perfection you gave me. What you made me feel is beyond compare. All I have for you is admiration and this love. I wish you happiness in your endeavours.