To separate by thresholds hurts the soul
The consciousness of the decision causes pain.
I'll not pretend I know shit about shit. This is a lesson easily learned by any young person given the opportunity to listen to their parents talk to each other. Short of any dreaded child-talk, what we understand from what they say is the fact that the mind creates limits, and these limits create reality.
More often, I tell us, the youth of today are just awful, and need to stop ruining shit. (Of course, implicit in this is the belief that the ones nobody pays attention to are the ones that will save us). I would have to say, then, that I wish them the best as they happen behind me, having nothing to do with the nothing I've touched, the nobody I've gouged and who've chipped away at my heart.
You, then, around me sit contrapposto and stainless and sometimes blink too much not because of any single beacon of brilliance but to squint away from the nothing that grows southside of each tree. But, hush, I'm trying to understand what psychology tells us is what makes us human.
What I wanted to complain about were the standard things, only to realize that on the one hand there are two moons, one hazy and close, one far and blurring, winking like an optometrist and on the other that people live with baggage caused by these problems, loathing or deprivation, but also starvation. What they didn't face were choices, often, and this misery is long-remembered, more clear than any pleasure.
I'll not pretend I know shit about shit. This is a lesson easily learned by any young person given the opportunity to listen to their parents talk to each other. Short of any dreaded child-talk, what we understand from what they say is the fact that the mind creates limits, and these limits create reality.
More often, I tell us, the youth of today are just awful, and need to stop ruining shit. (Of course, implicit in this is the belief that the ones nobody pays attention to are the ones that will save us). I would have to say, then, that I wish them the best as they happen behind me, having nothing to do with the nothing I've touched, the nobody I've gouged and who've chipped away at my heart.
You, then, around me sit contrapposto and stainless and sometimes blink too much not because of any single beacon of brilliance but to squint away from the nothing that grows southside of each tree. But, hush, I'm trying to understand what psychology tells us is what makes us human.
What I wanted to complain about were the standard things, only to realize that on the one hand there are two moons, one hazy and close, one far and blurring, winking like an optometrist and on the other that people live with baggage caused by these problems, loathing or deprivation, but also starvation. What they didn't face were choices, often, and this misery is long-remembered, more clear than any pleasure.