(no subject)
biology has dictated that the human body is a machine. and we are all bottles buzzing with a feverish electric energy; one that travels from one waiting synapse to the next, buckling as it struggles to contain a quiet fury.
measurements are so sickingly postmodern. everything must be quantified with polygraphs, seismographs, lithographs, anygraphs… we've tried to encapsulate, define, formulate, calculate, and simplify what it means to be human. but how? how do you capture humanity and hold it in your tiny hands?
it is a war. for anyone that struggles to rise beyond the limits of science and its intrinsic pessimism. it is a bloody and difficult war between our own mirror images and the holograms that we've constructed out of the remnants of someone else's history. volumes of human experience have declared that baring your beating breast to this world is suicide. even when we've tied these knots between our teeth so tightly that we've hung ourselves with them.
too busy to love. too fucked to love. too wrong to love. too scared to love. too tired from all the running to love. to where, and from what? where does everyone run to?
not strong enough to love. not forgiving enough to love.. not deserving enough to love. even when the seed is planted inside of us. it is a sleeping potential, one that we keep secured safely beneath these barriers of skin, behind miles and miles of razor wire.
measurements are so sickingly postmodern. everything must be quantified with polygraphs, seismographs, lithographs, anygraphs… we've tried to encapsulate, define, formulate, calculate, and simplify what it means to be human. but how? how do you capture humanity and hold it in your tiny hands?
it is a war. for anyone that struggles to rise beyond the limits of science and its intrinsic pessimism. it is a bloody and difficult war between our own mirror images and the holograms that we've constructed out of the remnants of someone else's history. volumes of human experience have declared that baring your beating breast to this world is suicide. even when we've tied these knots between our teeth so tightly that we've hung ourselves with them.
too busy to love. too fucked to love. too wrong to love. too scared to love. too tired from all the running to love. to where, and from what? where does everyone run to?
not strong enough to love. not forgiving enough to love.. not deserving enough to love. even when the seed is planted inside of us. it is a sleeping potential, one that we keep secured safely beneath these barriers of skin, behind miles and miles of razor wire.