paradoxcycle
Bluelight Crew
We, sometimes you and I, have discovered the special secrets of our own desires in the dark. We have begun, at length, almost never to unlearn these things which have belonged to us. Our lives are folding away like reception chairs. So we write out these things that have come to mean so much, these little subtler natures of ourselves, our existences and trace them back, at arm’s length to the fortress where all things lean forth from, the river from which all water must be pulled, all nourishment derived from. trying is so often our enemy. Be still, restlessness we are here to find, seekers of a brand new kind of understanding, as so many before and millions after, we are there and here both at once. The people we know are someone else. The times we smile are fractions of our lives.
So here, made of little energy bombs, calories counted and spread forth into livers and hearts and lungs, we are made of motion, made of the very act of thinking, living and somehow we co-exist with all our good ideas at once. i've tried so hard, so long and nothing counts so much as effort: we are tracing truth out in sand in the dark of mind-beaches with fragile views. We are, sometimes you and I, the softest of tortures on any way of being.
Here is how it happens: I am thinking about the great truths of love and understanding, the collecting of thoughts and arrangement of them to the final understandings of fault and fiction in romantic urges and then you’re there, creeping into my mind and taking over, you are slipping over my head and around my body like water droplets from a tsunami. I am a birdcage for the wanting of you. I imagine, in soft colors, the outline of your eyelids, the motion of your brow. The patterns of my mind that I have routed into orders and logics is disappearing and reappearing as water to mist and back again. I am the comings and goings of all things related to loving you, craving you against my skin. My thoughts flutter and coast like the wings of all manner of bird and I'm seeing, behind my eyes, your hair, the way it rests against your ears. The serenity of your skin. I am seeing hope in the future of taking my hand in yours: the answer to all the things that come and go across the great Midwestern plains of a person’s life. Accidentally, these things occur to me and I am lost within them. I'm a salvage yard for yearnings.
It is easy sometimes to think of you in transparent ways, as if you are without body or mind, you are just a floating thing of great beauty without the need to cause or end actions. Indeed, beyond them. when this happens I hear, in the floating behind me the things I know to be true. I am like a murderer who knows the immorality of a thing and decides that it doesn’t matter. I'm not distracted by prisons or punishments. I have outgrown fear and paralysis.
I am trying to get at a thing that cannot be gotten at. I am working to understand, to ascertain the specifics of your physical composition. maybe, if I can carefully look at you, long and perfectly, I will be able to memorize every feature of you face and body, every curve and fold of skin, every fluid and gesture in your catalog, and then, a subtle peace will wash over me and my love for you can settle into the shade of your stares.
So here, made of little energy bombs, calories counted and spread forth into livers and hearts and lungs, we are made of motion, made of the very act of thinking, living and somehow we co-exist with all our good ideas at once. i've tried so hard, so long and nothing counts so much as effort: we are tracing truth out in sand in the dark of mind-beaches with fragile views. We are, sometimes you and I, the softest of tortures on any way of being.
Here is how it happens: I am thinking about the great truths of love and understanding, the collecting of thoughts and arrangement of them to the final understandings of fault and fiction in romantic urges and then you’re there, creeping into my mind and taking over, you are slipping over my head and around my body like water droplets from a tsunami. I am a birdcage for the wanting of you. I imagine, in soft colors, the outline of your eyelids, the motion of your brow. The patterns of my mind that I have routed into orders and logics is disappearing and reappearing as water to mist and back again. I am the comings and goings of all things related to loving you, craving you against my skin. My thoughts flutter and coast like the wings of all manner of bird and I'm seeing, behind my eyes, your hair, the way it rests against your ears. The serenity of your skin. I am seeing hope in the future of taking my hand in yours: the answer to all the things that come and go across the great Midwestern plains of a person’s life. Accidentally, these things occur to me and I am lost within them. I'm a salvage yard for yearnings.
It is easy sometimes to think of you in transparent ways, as if you are without body or mind, you are just a floating thing of great beauty without the need to cause or end actions. Indeed, beyond them. when this happens I hear, in the floating behind me the things I know to be true. I am like a murderer who knows the immorality of a thing and decides that it doesn’t matter. I'm not distracted by prisons or punishments. I have outgrown fear and paralysis.
I am trying to get at a thing that cannot be gotten at. I am working to understand, to ascertain the specifics of your physical composition. maybe, if I can carefully look at you, long and perfectly, I will be able to memorize every feature of you face and body, every curve and fold of skin, every fluid and gesture in your catalog, and then, a subtle peace will wash over me and my love for you can settle into the shade of your stares.
