We like to buy a pretty package
We don’t like ourselves when we buy packages ourselves; when we cave in. It feels great and we feel so bad about it. Rotting around the house getting nothing done because of it. We sit on it and think on it more than the rest. We get pretty self directed and we just feel the more important for what we see as introspective and glorified in some sad way, like we were mental martyrs.
So many great artists and thinkers will sit below the atmosphere or fame or recognition. They will look around at the people holding the atmosphere above them. They will watch as pieces assemble in nodes within the sky above them.
I drink coffee because I allowed myself to be forced into liking it.
There are many crafty people schooled in the arts of selling arts. They know how to place them (or erase them) on a table, or how to leave them gently tucked into the perfect context. They know which towns will bring the baby in from the porch. They know what the townspeople need, and they wrap the artists in it. They package and present them so that they may spread a flurry of serendipity through the minds of those consumed by the need for an epiphany of appreciation to enrapture their emotions and calm their cold separations.
Our friends love us and know us. They’ve seen us naked. They try to dress us to be bought, but they really don’t know that game. They just know what we look like and which things we said best. They want to find us a crafty artist vender to waken the dormant receptors of the audience that might feed them and enable them to complete the dependency circle. If only each could know how much they needed each other at the same time.
The objects are always physically close. The time is the big divide.
We want to find naked artists and be friends with them and to find our wrappers together.
We want the inside understandings with their minority prestige, but we want the world to buy into it after we’ve know it first. We want a nice wad of appreciation.
Just a naked girl who’s bought into herself, sold nothing too much, and thinks the same of me. Another lonely person that pretends to like this or that when she just needs to feel the comfort of the atmosphere that surrounds her for a bit before dipping back down into the islands underneath.
Lonely people make their loneliness and confide in it as their creator. They forsake it and embrace it and break down and cry in its comforts and vanities.
I wish I could turn it off for long enough to see what I push away. I know that that’s how it is. Feel it and throw it away or loose it and make your discoveries of loss so you can find things that you love with more clarity than before, and throw them away again for a deeper abyss.
It can take a long time to learn to relax. You have to know someone’s really watching out for you. They you have to know why they’re doing it. Then you have to learn from it.
Lonely people aren’t for regular people. They’re meant for other lonely people so they can share their loneliness. They shouldn’t share that with anyone else. It wouldn’t be fair.
I may be your loneliness or sadness. Maybe I’m your joy or anger or shame. I’ll write it for you if you pay my rent. You can concentrate on making the world go around and I will let you sing your soul out through my melodies without having to face them and admit to them in public. I’ll let the world know you feel that way and take that off your chest. Those people that judged you for it will sing it too and won’t say anything about your song. I’ll open you up and let you discover your strengths and weaknesses in the comfort of comradery. We should all have that. I hope you feel safe and loved. I hope it lets you forget that worries ever clouded your desire to wonder and create.
So many great artists and thinkers will sit below the atmosphere or fame or recognition. They will look around at the people holding the atmosphere above them. They will watch as pieces assemble in nodes within the sky above them.
I drink coffee because I allowed myself to be forced into liking it.
There are many crafty people schooled in the arts of selling arts. They know how to place them (or erase them) on a table, or how to leave them gently tucked into the perfect context. They know which towns will bring the baby in from the porch. They know what the townspeople need, and they wrap the artists in it. They package and present them so that they may spread a flurry of serendipity through the minds of those consumed by the need for an epiphany of appreciation to enrapture their emotions and calm their cold separations.
Our friends love us and know us. They’ve seen us naked. They try to dress us to be bought, but they really don’t know that game. They just know what we look like and which things we said best. They want to find us a crafty artist vender to waken the dormant receptors of the audience that might feed them and enable them to complete the dependency circle. If only each could know how much they needed each other at the same time.
The objects are always physically close. The time is the big divide.
We want to find naked artists and be friends with them and to find our wrappers together.
We want the inside understandings with their minority prestige, but we want the world to buy into it after we’ve know it first. We want a nice wad of appreciation.
Just a naked girl who’s bought into herself, sold nothing too much, and thinks the same of me. Another lonely person that pretends to like this or that when she just needs to feel the comfort of the atmosphere that surrounds her for a bit before dipping back down into the islands underneath.
Lonely people make their loneliness and confide in it as their creator. They forsake it and embrace it and break down and cry in its comforts and vanities.
I wish I could turn it off for long enough to see what I push away. I know that that’s how it is. Feel it and throw it away or loose it and make your discoveries of loss so you can find things that you love with more clarity than before, and throw them away again for a deeper abyss.
It can take a long time to learn to relax. You have to know someone’s really watching out for you. They you have to know why they’re doing it. Then you have to learn from it.
Lonely people aren’t for regular people. They’re meant for other lonely people so they can share their loneliness. They shouldn’t share that with anyone else. It wouldn’t be fair.
I may be your loneliness or sadness. Maybe I’m your joy or anger or shame. I’ll write it for you if you pay my rent. You can concentrate on making the world go around and I will let you sing your soul out through my melodies without having to face them and admit to them in public. I’ll let the world know you feel that way and take that off your chest. Those people that judged you for it will sing it too and won’t say anything about your song. I’ll open you up and let you discover your strengths and weaknesses in the comfort of comradery. We should all have that. I hope you feel safe and loved. I hope it lets you forget that worries ever clouded your desire to wonder and create.