Can't believe I fell back into this
forbidden place, this
unspoken emotion.
Already it murders this area
between one head
and the other:
the distance in time,
the distance in space:
about a day back now,
fifteen minutes away.
I've got to wonder
if this is healthy for me,
falling back in just before
the end once again...
... though I
knew the deadline
ahead of time
this time.
Still, I maintain distance,
a little self-resistence:
I know I'd previously felt
lonely and nihilistic
thanks to the last time,
the last sacred moment.
My last blessed illusion
where I fell far too deep,
far too fast --
and so now
the higher intensity of
any trancendant emotion,
the stronger my suspicions
towards all that I feel,
for this is only the beginning;
only a rebirth once again,
and as always, fated to a swift death,
and as it is sometimes,
there are indications of a
future rebirth.
Oh, how hope can kill,
leaving one chasing mirages
across desert plains
thirsty and desperate for
an unlikely raindrop --
the kingdom of my dreams
for a lone, shallow puddle...
and then, there she stands,
again, once again,
my only holy goddess,
a vast lake stretching from
just over the mountain to
the horizon into which the
glorious sun descends,
and now I can carry
the heaviest weight;
let the sun burn off my skin,
let me run till my feet bleed for I'd
live on my red and crusty knees an immortal
just to touch the lake with my hands,
fingers touching the water's skin --
and then to
wake up eating sand;
to fucking wake up
eating sand,
and to do it all again
to forget the last time and
to chase the next mirage as if I
was born-again into innocence,
blessed with their holy ignorance,
a continuity error in existence,
amnesia plaguing my
desperate consciousness,
hope only comes in my forgetfullness
of history's morbid lessons,
and so I chase the
mirror of the heat's rise
from the wasteland's floor;
chase the reflection of my desires
and partake of alluring maya
and then
wake up eating
sand again.
Falling again? That familiar decent.
I feel so redundant: deja-vu again?
Gravity, my old friend, so we meet
here in the bitter cold once again...
And so now
the higher any intense,
trancendant emotion,
the stronger my suspicions
towards all that I feel,
for this is only the beginning;
only a rebirth once again,
and as always, fated to a swift death,
and as it is sometimes,
there are indications of a
future rebirth...
...and yet nothing in this sense
has ever been long-term for me:
how do I know feelings now,
me towards her, and,
as it seems, her towards me,
would last half a year
if her presence was consistent?
How can my mind trust
what my heart must
when that hypnotic, rythmic organ
has led me astray twice before?
How can some word's
deep meaning be true
when you throw it all around?
Remember all the stories
countless told you
as they fell in the gravity
of bleak realisation,
weeping as they
looked on upward
to witness the retrograde
of their most cherished illusion
only to climb back up that mountain,
to try and reach a cloud
they could never stand on,
to reach for a star shimmering,
they think, for them --
a star, just a glow that
reached them without aim
and destroyed itself eons
before their moment of birth;
nothing to reach for there
but one's own hopes and dreams:
an ephermal reflection of within, untangable,
to distract one from death
and if the sunflower that grows
ever made it to its ember; its glowing globe,
it would turn to ashes, it would annihilate
before it ever reached the surface
of the hope it strives towards;
the illusion that
inspires growth,
brings it hope,
and feeds it life
until death.
And then this vision of the tortoise
pops up once again in my brain:
dragging his dreaded weight across
that dead and wasted desert plain,
with that monkey on his back,
holding a fishing pole with a line
attatched to an apple at the end,
which the simian dangles before our
lost and laboring friend,
a lucious red dream that he chases,
this goal of his he only tastes in
his dreams, dead upon awakening,
determined nonetheless
that no matter how long it takes
he will make it to that apple that seems
to swing a bit closer,
than further away, like
something on the tip
of his tongue that he
can almost taste,
but not quite,
can almost touch,
but cannot bite --
and is he chasing the apple
or the reflection in it's surface?
Doesn't matter, its his reason,
it gives him meaning, it is his purpose,
and he thinks by dragging weight
beneath the sun, on this searing
hot and painful ground
he will earn that fruit of his labor,
but death and exhaustion
is all he found
and the monkey,
cackling in maddness,
sits on this dead weight,
enjoys the juicy treat he holds
and waits around for another
gullible tortoise,
another fucking flake.
And every time I say
it will never happen again
I hold off until the last possible moment
thinking the thought,
speaking the word,
only to watch it come
crashing down
like a castle of cards
on the wobbling foundation
of a cheap coffee table
standing on its last leg
and caused to collapse
by the cold, bitter wind of a fate
that lives to kick me in the ass
time after time
time after fucking
time after time
time after fucking time
I find myself back
in this forbidden place,
in the grips of this
unspoken emotion,
willing to feel the pain of
another fall from grace
to taste that
trust in that girl,
the absolute trust in that
one sacred moment,
time after time
time after fucking
time after time
time after fucking time
succombing to
the illusion that
inspires growth,
brings me hope,
and feeds me life
until death.
forbidden place, this
unspoken emotion.
Already it murders this area
between one head
and the other:
the distance in time,
the distance in space:
about a day back now,
fifteen minutes away.
I've got to wonder
if this is healthy for me,
falling back in just before
the end once again...
... though I
knew the deadline
ahead of time
this time.
Still, I maintain distance,
a little self-resistence:
I know I'd previously felt
lonely and nihilistic
thanks to the last time,
the last sacred moment.
My last blessed illusion
where I fell far too deep,
far too fast --
and so now
the higher intensity of
any trancendant emotion,
the stronger my suspicions
towards all that I feel,
for this is only the beginning;
only a rebirth once again,
and as always, fated to a swift death,
and as it is sometimes,
there are indications of a
future rebirth.
Oh, how hope can kill,
leaving one chasing mirages
across desert plains
thirsty and desperate for
an unlikely raindrop --
the kingdom of my dreams
for a lone, shallow puddle...
and then, there she stands,
again, once again,
my only holy goddess,
a vast lake stretching from
just over the mountain to
the horizon into which the
glorious sun descends,
and now I can carry
the heaviest weight;
let the sun burn off my skin,
let me run till my feet bleed for I'd
live on my red and crusty knees an immortal
just to touch the lake with my hands,
fingers touching the water's skin --
and then to
wake up eating sand;
to fucking wake up
eating sand,
and to do it all again
to forget the last time and
to chase the next mirage as if I
was born-again into innocence,
blessed with their holy ignorance,
a continuity error in existence,
amnesia plaguing my
desperate consciousness,
hope only comes in my forgetfullness
of history's morbid lessons,
and so I chase the
mirror of the heat's rise
from the wasteland's floor;
chase the reflection of my desires
and partake of alluring maya
and then
wake up eating
sand again.
Falling again? That familiar decent.
I feel so redundant: deja-vu again?
Gravity, my old friend, so we meet
here in the bitter cold once again...
And so now
the higher any intense,
trancendant emotion,
the stronger my suspicions
towards all that I feel,
for this is only the beginning;
only a rebirth once again,
and as always, fated to a swift death,
and as it is sometimes,
there are indications of a
future rebirth...
...and yet nothing in this sense
has ever been long-term for me:
how do I know feelings now,
me towards her, and,
as it seems, her towards me,
would last half a year
if her presence was consistent?
How can my mind trust
what my heart must
when that hypnotic, rythmic organ
has led me astray twice before?
How can some word's
deep meaning be true
when you throw it all around?
Remember all the stories
countless told you
as they fell in the gravity
of bleak realisation,
weeping as they
looked on upward
to witness the retrograde
of their most cherished illusion
only to climb back up that mountain,
to try and reach a cloud
they could never stand on,
to reach for a star shimmering,
they think, for them --
a star, just a glow that
reached them without aim
and destroyed itself eons
before their moment of birth;
nothing to reach for there
but one's own hopes and dreams:
an ephermal reflection of within, untangable,
to distract one from death
and if the sunflower that grows
ever made it to its ember; its glowing globe,
it would turn to ashes, it would annihilate
before it ever reached the surface
of the hope it strives towards;
the illusion that
inspires growth,
brings it hope,
and feeds it life
until death.
And then this vision of the tortoise
pops up once again in my brain:
dragging his dreaded weight across
that dead and wasted desert plain,
with that monkey on his back,
holding a fishing pole with a line
attatched to an apple at the end,
which the simian dangles before our
lost and laboring friend,
a lucious red dream that he chases,
this goal of his he only tastes in
his dreams, dead upon awakening,
determined nonetheless
that no matter how long it takes
he will make it to that apple that seems
to swing a bit closer,
than further away, like
something on the tip
of his tongue that he
can almost taste,
but not quite,
can almost touch,
but cannot bite --
and is he chasing the apple
or the reflection in it's surface?
Doesn't matter, its his reason,
it gives him meaning, it is his purpose,
and he thinks by dragging weight
beneath the sun, on this searing
hot and painful ground
he will earn that fruit of his labor,
but death and exhaustion
is all he found
and the monkey,
cackling in maddness,
sits on this dead weight,
enjoys the juicy treat he holds
and waits around for another
gullible tortoise,
another fucking flake.
And every time I say
it will never happen again
I hold off until the last possible moment
thinking the thought,
speaking the word,
only to watch it come
crashing down
like a castle of cards
on the wobbling foundation
of a cheap coffee table
standing on its last leg
and caused to collapse
by the cold, bitter wind of a fate
that lives to kick me in the ass
time after time
time after fucking
time after time
time after fucking time
I find myself back
in this forbidden place,
in the grips of this
unspoken emotion,
willing to feel the pain of
another fall from grace
to taste that
trust in that girl,
the absolute trust in that
one sacred moment,
time after time
time after fucking
time after time
time after fucking time
succombing to
the illusion that
inspires growth,
brings me hope,
and feeds me life
until death.
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