Puncturing the balloon- I remember my Name
Jen Jen is sitting upon the pale purple chair working on her art. Courtney is delving into some literature that she occasionally will be so taken by she shouts "OH MY GOSH, AMAZING" and proceeds to read an excerpt from. I do not all together understand the full meaning of the words because they are out of context and hard to conceptualize without the background knowledge. However the foreground information reminds me that i have a long walk down this brilliant path of illumination, and its not posse to do a crazy step and swing. Ani Defrano - surpertine request. Emily pleases herself sitting in a transitional message apparatus while typing up a paper.
This is the girls room. This is what my idea of contentment consists of. I myself had a book sitting in my lap like a dog with a delicious treat in my mouth not so long ago. And then it hit me- i was suppose to be on a drive home a few hours ago. Racing back with ideas of moments of pleasure and less so in my mind tracing a picture of a body that i call by name JUPITER.
Darling we part, i write you few letters from across the sea. That deep deep sea, with skies, and seagulls. Your welcoming shore, let me soak your sun, let me know your love, bearing witness as a women bears a child.
If my daily life was here i wonder if it would wear, if i would not have the reverence i do- and i would start to have commitment issues. Start to let me eyes wander, lose my appreciation, lose my passion.
I doubt it. Because just as nature must continuously change, as does the shore where i lay my head on the east coast of hands. Conditional love leaves room for reality. The reality that knowledge and friendship go will travel.
Melodies in time capsules, bright guitar notes plucked with vigor, peeled like an orange skin.
Black, purple, green, yellow, red dotted skin. Gently removed to reveal various centers.
And inside the juices intellectual masterbation seems like an escapists wetdream.
Here- in thought i question- here. I must puncture the balloon. The fear that had me cover my ears, and my eyes, and hold up the mask- and crave the similarities, and acceptance, and normality. I must self sacrifice the idea that this virgin has fed me in my sleep. She talks to me in magazines, she talks to me in her silence, she speaks volumes in the textbooks and reciting of narrow perspectives of the conqueror.
In so many ways she has fucked me, and i have never had the ability to touch her. Everyones innocent structure- whatever name or embodiment - the title OPPRESSION.
I am oppressed and i am an oppressor.
I am Dansir. I am equal. Divided by. Multiplied. Concluded upon. Hypothesized about.
I am as real as the virgin- this gives me faith that i still have the ability to challenge her, and unmask it.
This is the girls room. This is what my idea of contentment consists of. I myself had a book sitting in my lap like a dog with a delicious treat in my mouth not so long ago. And then it hit me- i was suppose to be on a drive home a few hours ago. Racing back with ideas of moments of pleasure and less so in my mind tracing a picture of a body that i call by name JUPITER.
Darling we part, i write you few letters from across the sea. That deep deep sea, with skies, and seagulls. Your welcoming shore, let me soak your sun, let me know your love, bearing witness as a women bears a child.
If my daily life was here i wonder if it would wear, if i would not have the reverence i do- and i would start to have commitment issues. Start to let me eyes wander, lose my appreciation, lose my passion.
I doubt it. Because just as nature must continuously change, as does the shore where i lay my head on the east coast of hands. Conditional love leaves room for reality. The reality that knowledge and friendship go will travel.
Melodies in time capsules, bright guitar notes plucked with vigor, peeled like an orange skin.
Black, purple, green, yellow, red dotted skin. Gently removed to reveal various centers.
And inside the juices intellectual masterbation seems like an escapists wetdream.
Here- in thought i question- here. I must puncture the balloon. The fear that had me cover my ears, and my eyes, and hold up the mask- and crave the similarities, and acceptance, and normality. I must self sacrifice the idea that this virgin has fed me in my sleep. She talks to me in magazines, she talks to me in her silence, she speaks volumes in the textbooks and reciting of narrow perspectives of the conqueror.
In so many ways she has fucked me, and i have never had the ability to touch her. Everyones innocent structure- whatever name or embodiment - the title OPPRESSION.
I am oppressed and i am an oppressor.
I am Dansir. I am equal. Divided by. Multiplied. Concluded upon. Hypothesized about.
I am as real as the virgin- this gives me faith that i still have the ability to challenge her, and unmask it.