In our concluding negotiation you called me a fallen knower; hustling for something what I call the
In our concluding negotiation you called me a fallen knower; hustling for something what I call the truth. A fact that has been verified,
the reality of love.
I had never been an astronaut until I met you; you told me that you had muttered those words before, but it had made no sense until you met me and convinced perhaps (rightfully) both myself and yourself that your virgin voyage was a mere mistake.
To fall in the enamoured stage of mind, I wore the veil of blissful ignorance.
And as the page turned, I buried our love along with
my softly draining veil, reluctantly. You had entombed yours
the first time you had fallen out.
You already knew what I thought to know.
I lived what I hoped to be true, a glistering glitch in the sight of an astronaut. I weeped as the robots repaired my visual perception,
longing, hustling, languishing,
I weeped louder,
aching, pining, yearning.
The robots struggled. I resisted.
They were accustomed to the action of opposition in the matters of hearts, secretly envious of the feelings that required more what they inhibited.
I forcefully fought back; barbarically rejected the antidotes; violently tore off the wires attached to me; viciously smashed the metallic counter; savagely attacked the machinelike nurses.
They were accustomed to resistance of hearts,
but my heart was not like any other dreamer.
Ultimately the astronauts have to give in; we learn and we bury
whatever the robots hoped to have in our dim stars,
that once reflected lights so beamingly that even the cities during the night bowed to their radiance; the glitch.
We learn,
and move on.
But you were right; I was a fallen knower who hustled something that I knew as the truth. A fact that has been verified, the reality of love. I traveled around the universes, supposedly repaired and fixed, once more just like I did with you, throughout the mesmerising galaxies,
across the whistling seas of the milky way.
I longed, hustled, languished, ached, pined and yearned.
And so did all the dimmed stars, all the robotic creatures turned into nurses, but not the learned astronauts who learned and move on, not you.
The robots discharged me,
and told me I had done the right thing when burying the veil of blissful ignorance that blinds the sights of astronauts. I keenly thanked them for saving my life and apologised my irrational behaviour. Their reaction did not alter; or if it did, I would had been incapable of noticing how robotic expressions are painted.
I traveled with the spaceship to the outer space; the voyage granted only to those who fall in the enamoured stage of mind. As the engine electrified, the technicians were alarmed instantly. It was the same ballistic capsule I shared with you on our virgin journey, and the humans screeched. I should have learned, I was supposedly fixed, I knew what all the other (repaired) astronauts knew and this very craft was putatively to stay still always, because both of us had not been first timers.
Later I heard that robots nursing me were executed for the error they had given birth to. The ones, I think, were most envious.
Perhaps...
...just maybe...
....they simply knew...
What I knew of my fellow colleagues,
they had learned and moved on. Just like me, they traveled to the outer space once again. They greeted the stars that were still beaming their brightness to the world, and inhibited one of those slightly less shining - in the colonial terms “unconquered” - stars with the lovers they found with their improved visions. No one cared for the dim ones; used, exploited and abandoned.
By the time I arrived to mine, she had weeped all its light out. The start south of her boomed with energy and I could feel a gnarl in my throat; he was like ours the time we first we met.
I shovelled.
And I shovelled.
The scientists on the ground tried to make the uttermost sense of my incoherent actions. I would be lying if I said they had not done it before with someone else, but in spite of how many rejected the truth we were supposed to have learnt they were left with no answers. First it was an anomaly that occurred occasionally. But then it happened too frequently to have the name abnormality.
I digged deep and I found nothing else than my veil of blissful ignorance. The love we buried had withered. I wept, again.
I took out the veil, and the star glistered, momentarily.
I wore the veil, having no arrant modification in the feelings dwelling in my repaired vision.
The star beaconed, like never before.
The very moment the police robots began to joyfully court my start, at last catching the atrocious foe of astronauts that all the scientists desired to resolve. But the instant I witnessed our star spark more vigorously than any other affair in the universe,
I knew.
I was still in love with you,
and the fact you were not,
no longer hurt me.
the reality of love.
I had never been an astronaut until I met you; you told me that you had muttered those words before, but it had made no sense until you met me and convinced perhaps (rightfully) both myself and yourself that your virgin voyage was a mere mistake.
To fall in the enamoured stage of mind, I wore the veil of blissful ignorance.
And as the page turned, I buried our love along with
my softly draining veil, reluctantly. You had entombed yours
the first time you had fallen out.
You already knew what I thought to know.
I lived what I hoped to be true, a glistering glitch in the sight of an astronaut. I weeped as the robots repaired my visual perception,
longing, hustling, languishing,
I weeped louder,
aching, pining, yearning.
The robots struggled. I resisted.
They were accustomed to the action of opposition in the matters of hearts, secretly envious of the feelings that required more what they inhibited.
I forcefully fought back; barbarically rejected the antidotes; violently tore off the wires attached to me; viciously smashed the metallic counter; savagely attacked the machinelike nurses.
They were accustomed to resistance of hearts,
but my heart was not like any other dreamer.
Ultimately the astronauts have to give in; we learn and we bury
whatever the robots hoped to have in our dim stars,
that once reflected lights so beamingly that even the cities during the night bowed to their radiance; the glitch.
We learn,
and move on.
But you were right; I was a fallen knower who hustled something that I knew as the truth. A fact that has been verified, the reality of love. I traveled around the universes, supposedly repaired and fixed, once more just like I did with you, throughout the mesmerising galaxies,
across the whistling seas of the milky way.
I longed, hustled, languished, ached, pined and yearned.
And so did all the dimmed stars, all the robotic creatures turned into nurses, but not the learned astronauts who learned and move on, not you.
The robots discharged me,
and told me I had done the right thing when burying the veil of blissful ignorance that blinds the sights of astronauts. I keenly thanked them for saving my life and apologised my irrational behaviour. Their reaction did not alter; or if it did, I would had been incapable of noticing how robotic expressions are painted.
I traveled with the spaceship to the outer space; the voyage granted only to those who fall in the enamoured stage of mind. As the engine electrified, the technicians were alarmed instantly. It was the same ballistic capsule I shared with you on our virgin journey, and the humans screeched. I should have learned, I was supposedly fixed, I knew what all the other (repaired) astronauts knew and this very craft was putatively to stay still always, because both of us had not been first timers.
Later I heard that robots nursing me were executed for the error they had given birth to. The ones, I think, were most envious.
Perhaps...
...just maybe...
....they simply knew...
What I knew of my fellow colleagues,
they had learned and moved on. Just like me, they traveled to the outer space once again. They greeted the stars that were still beaming their brightness to the world, and inhibited one of those slightly less shining - in the colonial terms “unconquered” - stars with the lovers they found with their improved visions. No one cared for the dim ones; used, exploited and abandoned.
By the time I arrived to mine, she had weeped all its light out. The start south of her boomed with energy and I could feel a gnarl in my throat; he was like ours the time we first we met.
I shovelled.
And I shovelled.
The scientists on the ground tried to make the uttermost sense of my incoherent actions. I would be lying if I said they had not done it before with someone else, but in spite of how many rejected the truth we were supposed to have learnt they were left with no answers. First it was an anomaly that occurred occasionally. But then it happened too frequently to have the name abnormality.
I digged deep and I found nothing else than my veil of blissful ignorance. The love we buried had withered. I wept, again.
I took out the veil, and the star glistered, momentarily.
I wore the veil, having no arrant modification in the feelings dwelling in my repaired vision.
The star beaconed, like never before.
The very moment the police robots began to joyfully court my start, at last catching the atrocious foe of astronauts that all the scientists desired to resolve. But the instant I witnessed our star spark more vigorously than any other affair in the universe,
I knew.
I was still in love with you,
and the fact you were not,
no longer hurt me.