If the brain is the great sculptor of ones sensory and cognitive perceptions into an efficient and survivable understanding of reality, then might, on a larger scale, our very lives be some edited version of an infinite diversity of converging existences?
~
Taking so many gulps of air when I finally break the surface.
Love is a contradiction; a cold streak of fear rolled into a deeply-rooted sensation of destiny, the burn of raw fire crackling up my spine. Why do the most profound and sacred loves always push me out of balance?
I put my head under the water, just to feel submersed.
There are never nearly enough cigarette butts in my ash tray to make me forget about the maybes, but I puff and puff until I choke. Two pills, twenty four fucking doses at once, and a handful of grass to keep me fly. Shot after shot after drink after wine before I crumble into dust, with a thousand less chances to get you naked and inside.
I have no fucking idea who's towel this is, but it is soft as hell and its bringing me back.
~
There is romance in the sorrow.
Too many weeks to count, hidden inside from the sun. Laughter distracts; moments of clarity are suspended like droplets of rain when I'm already soaked. I heave with passion as my libido grasps aimlessly for absolutely any chance at indifference. Isolation beckons brightly in the haze of my addictions.
~
More chances at triumph further my elation, yet the commendations granted to my eloquence and loyalty only suffer the same tawdry fate of all the prior epiphanies; I still shiver in the spring.
