I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving
but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.
Cut my life into pieces
I've reached my last resort
Suffocation, no breathing
Don't give a fuck if I cut my arm bleeding
Do you even care if I die bleeding?
Would it be wrong, would it be right
If I took my life tonight
Chances are that I might
Mutilation out of sight
And I'm contemplating suicide.
I clear a space to write, for you, to you, against you. You are the measure of my abilities. I reach for your exactitude, your ambition, your folly. You are the tide mark on the bridge, the level to reach. You are the face who always avoids my glance, the man who is just leaving the bar. I search for you through the spirals of all my sentences. I throw out whole pages of manuscript because I cannot find you in them. I search for you in small details, in the shapes of my verbs, the quality of my phrases. When I can write no more because I am too tired, my head aches, my left arm is cramped with tension, and I am left irresolute, I get up, go out, drink, cruise the streets. Sex is a brief gesture, I fling away my body with my money and my fear. It is a sharp sensation which fills the empty space before I can go in search of you again. I repent nothing but the frustration of being unable to reach you. You are the glove that I find on the floor, the daily challenge I take up. You are the reader for whom I write.
I clear a space to write, for you, to you, against you. You are the measure of my abilities. I reach for your exactitude, your ambition, your folly. You are the tide mark on the bridge, the level to reach. You are the face who always avoids my glance, the man who is just leaving the bar. I search for you through the spirals of all my sentences. I throw out whole pages of manuscript because I cannot find you in them. I search for you in small details, in the shapes of my verbs, the quality of my phrases. When I can write no more because I am too tired, my head aches, my left arm is cramped with tension, and I am left irresolute, I get up, go out, drink, cruise the streets. Sex is a brief gesture, I fling away my body with my money and my fear. It is a sharp sensation which fills the empty space before I can go in search of you again. I repent nothing but the frustration of being unable to reach you. You are the glove that I find on the floor, the daily challenge I take up. You are the reader for whom I write.
Who am I? Who are you? That is to say, 'Who are you really?' Do you know? Does anyone know? The restraints of this society make us put up so many walls of bullshit and facades to hide who we are that it is almost impossible to tell who anyone really is. We dig ourselves into a comfortable hole to hide away from the eyes of our peers, and it's in this hole that we bury ourselves. Dig yourselves out. Claw your way back into the light of day. Let your true self breathe, and in doing that, live.
Life, like some grand mosaic slowly loses hold over time, and the fragile strands that connect the many different parts unravels. The universe is a mirror, fragile and reflective, and we all stand in awe of our own human vanity. Fools see the universe as linear, absolute, all knowing. The wise see the universe as chaotic, unknown, fragile. Only on the verge of infinity can one see the fall apart universe. Sadness is knowing that we all stand upon a universe with a cracked glass bottom, and in an instant we may all sink into oblivion. Everything falls apart. Empires rise and crumble as tin soldiers hold plastic banners of righteous intent, all soaked with the blood of innocents. Hands raise and fall to the deafening sound of a million questions all unanswered. Love is just another unfelt emotion, talked about but never seen in full bloom. Love is only rumor and hearsay in the fall apart universe. Eventually we all must stand upon the jagged glass of the broken boundaries and broken promises. We must all suffer the soul bleeding that follows as the tattered splinters dig deep.
I spit, I spit in the eye, I tear, I tear out my heart, and I scatter the bits.
I stay unseen by the light, I stay untold by the truth
I'm sold by a lie
By this I am able in all of my travels to make these memories quit
But tonight I clearly recall every little bit.
He awoke, opened his eyes. The room meant very little to him; he was deeply immersed in the non-being from which he had just come... there was the certitude of an infinite sadness at the core of his consciousness, but the sadness was reassuring, because alone it was familiar.
In art, there are only two types of people: revolutionaries and plagiarists. And in the end, doesn't the revolutionary's work become official, once the State takes it over?
