(no subject)
The genetic line of humanity, I find, is often obsessively preoccupied with singular hopes and fantasies that are issued simply within an hour, minute, or even moment of delicacy with which an individual's mind constructs hypotheses and theses for the alpha and omega of mortal existence. We associate the happiness we feel in these insignificant depressions - a hollow light at the end of an illusory tunnel - with the seemingly sentient being that stumbled upon an emotional trigger, we carve a niche in our very personalities for the outsider to burrow, and we derive future days and years as paths for a wagon half-full with another's luggage.
We are children of habit. We breed on instinct. We feed carnal desires with the backing of a conceptual emotional tie that we build in moments and sustain forever on faith, lies, and illusion. We do all of this without logical thought. With the premise of love, we are justifiably lustful and driven to achieve the fantasies that plague us, born of individual contacts of limbs and flesh, hair and bone, or of the sound of laughter, a compliment, or a witty retort.
As human's we seem to have a disposition towards order that refuses to allow a thread in one's life to simply be pulled into the seams, to disappear with no further thought. We build upon our fantastic moments, our sunrises, our first kisses that we claim last so long; later when we've built the structure of our fantastic prison, solely on the integrity of these simple lapses in time, the framework collapses, and we find that they were just too short. And we cry, like we never heard the sirens or saw the blinding light of truth taking its track of reason across the country of our minds. Maybe we didn't, but maybe - just maybe - we should.
We are children of habit. We breed on instinct. We feed carnal desires with the backing of a conceptual emotional tie that we build in moments and sustain forever on faith, lies, and illusion. We do all of this without logical thought. With the premise of love, we are justifiably lustful and driven to achieve the fantasies that plague us, born of individual contacts of limbs and flesh, hair and bone, or of the sound of laughter, a compliment, or a witty retort.
As human's we seem to have a disposition towards order that refuses to allow a thread in one's life to simply be pulled into the seams, to disappear with no further thought. We build upon our fantastic moments, our sunrises, our first kisses that we claim last so long; later when we've built the structure of our fantastic prison, solely on the integrity of these simple lapses in time, the framework collapses, and we find that they were just too short. And we cry, like we never heard the sirens or saw the blinding light of truth taking its track of reason across the country of our minds. Maybe we didn't, but maybe - just maybe - we should.