"Addiction is falling in love, seduction is rising in it.
People don't change, only time does.
Or does it?"
There were times when I just stood in the scorching confusion and drowning desire on the other end of the road hopelessly waiting for the magic that never happened.
The journey that wasn't there. The failure that didn't occur, or didn't it?
I like my drink black, but in that instance, all I wanted was some milk.
Here is the moment of creation
The mother singularity
The great bang
I am the pale-skinned, cold headed, heartless merchant of death.
I am the sensual creature of pleasure beneath the bloodthirsty, pain hungry warrior.
Irony is that the margins are clean and yet, everyone is yelling.
Y E L L O W, R E D S, & B L U E S
WORDS & SENTENCES
If everything is a metaphor, what is the metaphor itself?
Its an answer.
A question is like that deep desire that burns inside your left chamber when you gaze far along the road and all you see is a dark, wet bleakness. All you seek is a blank bleak lie in a black black universe.
"Lie to me"
Love is fair - fairly unfair."How can we know what's fair?"
We can't. But we know whats not.
"Lie to me."
Maybe I lied all along.
Give me words, and I'll give you a sentence.
LOVE IS CRAP
"Would you like the crab thing?"
Oh, I love the crab thing. It sounds like crap, but it tastes different.
A hole is a gaping absence of numbers - a profane reality in a cold, sold delusion.
A mole is just more - 6.0221415 x 10^23 parts of a single, pure, boring profundity.
Love is the rationalization of a loser that universe is fair - its just not.
But you cannot lose when you make your own luck
Or the luck makes you.
You can see the future when you create it first
Or the future creates you.
"Read between"
Yes, but only to write beyond.
"The games are nothing, but the names of the shames that you are shedding off"
But the names are nothing, just the ol' shards of madness catching on.
The skies turn blue, the pigeon stares again
But all I find inside is nothing
A hollow deafening emptiness - the kind with no beginning or an end.
In that, a struggle against a frozen blanket of fear and its tangled shadows
Beyond that, a screeching cry for everything unprecedented.
LOVE IS SHALLOW
Because the sun rises, the fire burns, and the blood freezes
And 'yet, it moves.'
Shallow: I love you
Yellow: I love you.
Yellow: But you don't understand what love is.
Shallow: Yet I feel it.
Yellow: Exactly.
Shallow: What is love?
Yellow: Love is a self-centered delusion. It begins in a self-serving dream, and ends in a self-defeating reality.
Shallow: What is love?
Yellow: Love is not to win or to lose. Love is winning first, only to lose second.
Shallow: If you fall in love, you can always rise.
Yellow: No you rise in love, only to always fall.
Yellow: That and except when failure is not an option. That and except when you fell long ago, and now the only option is to fly.
Shallow: So, what is love?
Yellow: Love is a stream of consciousness threading a barren, frigid, empty chaos.
Yellow: Its the lines on you and the lines in me. Its carving sense in a bleakly senseless, purposelessly blank, and meaninglessly black existence.
TO CUT IS TO CURE
Life is like an absurd, provocative, psychotic bleed in a sad, unspeakably violent neuroses.
Its a steep screaming slide into an abysmal, criminally silent magnitude of nothingness.
"Why does someone have to live?"
Someone has to live, because someone died.
Cut is to cure, as cure is to cut
Because the blood whispers, before it screams
Because the pain flows, before its decimated.
Hope is a fallacy in a fantastically cruel containment.
"Is it pink or black?"
Its gray.
"Is it a hole or a triangle?"
Its one. Its hollow. Its empty. And its a square.
"But then why do you want it?"Because I know that I am wrong.
"How do you know?"
I don't. Its just that its the way I feel.
"How do you feel?"
I feel, like the first drop of blood - that must pang of pain
I feel, like the first tale of love - that pale stain of lust
I feel, like the first fantasy - that only desire
I feel as if a wave hit the sands and took away the searing tops and burning troughs
And all that was there was still the sand, but moist and saturated.
I feel like I wrote an end before the beginning
And someone read it all the way.
And there was 'a moment of bliss, that would last such a man a lifetime.'
Yasir
Featured links:
From Open to Minimally Invasive: Cardiothoracics @ NYU (Aubrey Galloway)
Success in the Ticking Clock (Philip Zimbardo)
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