| This throbbing of my insides,
|
| this melancholic tribal inner wanderlust,
|
| this fatal longing for something impalpable,
|
| this unnameable emotionless urge.
|
| This, this leaves me empty,
|
| yet propels me onward
|
| Hoping to annihilate entropy with emotion,
|
| I go about the living rituals.
|
| I invest, I sacrifice, I compromise…
|
| Yet entire understanding escapes me by mere steps,
|
| this I know,
|
| but logic is a failure
|
| I come to mistrust and mistrusting trust brings me
|
| back around to the beginning.
|
| The things I see at times have no names.
|
| I myself am the nameless creature of dubious profession,
|
| notorious for that which is impolite to be admitted,
|
| the truth reveals itself in inconveniences and fate
|
| the faith can make a discrepancy between shame and being shunned.
|
| I fight idiosyncrasies of my own making,
|
| I draw imaginary lines in my mind
|
| hoping to segregate the good behaviors from the bad,
|
| the problem flux from this knowledge, from this world.
|
| I try to change the patterns that I try to tell myself
|
| were long ago instilled by someone else.
|
| I walk the border between denial and vacancy,
|
| with open eyes to find my hand are still in front of me,
|
| my feet are still attached
|
| and my organs still manufacture liquids that cause me to have strange dreams.
|
| I have heard that nothing can be created that doesn’t already exist,
|
| somewhere, somewhere, somewhere.
|
| I must try to contain my thoughts in this constricting box that is
|
| this world, this experience, this instant.
|
| I invest, I sacrifice, I compromise
|
| I invest, I sacrifice, I compromise |