Remember, you, remember and do not reminisce, do not swoon into such soft and yielding horizons but meet me in stark visions, I will not be hollowed out now and when you plea for the abandonment of love. I know it, that this love is such an empty space, so similar to burning, flowering hate. The flower crisp, burning and sleek yellows brandished to reveal the abominably reactive climate we have been birthed within. I know it, and do not yield to it, do not yield the petals of my soul whose nectar does not seep, is not plucked and transported generously by wildlife but is cast into shadows and bright light equally.
No there is not a doubt that I feel quite alone but who are you, then, who stands openly declaring the absence of love, the hollow fibres of our shared existence. Cast you not a spark inside this rare place, to ignite passions and flare with inner light? Dissapear, then, and imagine that all is lost. Absence and apostasy, the numb shelter of the atheist and the non-affirmational. I cannot regret the uncontained drizzle of an internal purity, far cry from the heat and thump of heart, lungs inside of my chest beating frantically grasping at the meaning of a breath. We are not here simply to turn to dust as the sun burns brighter, as the pavement crack and the streetlamps flicker with last remnants. Surely.
Our thoughts are a brave step outwards and it was as if we would pass our woes into one another, into the damp, meek earth with burial, combustion when we sought to remove death’s lidewed rotting surface even further. I am lost lost with you but I do not understand life and feel that not many can make this assumption. There are simply to many things that are unknown, so many cartographies and surveys that barely reveal the texture of lust across all consciousness, the flavours and scents that must vary so completely. If there is any totality it is the total negation of fact, the manner in which the fact simply exists to cut deeper, to reveal and enlighten. Knowledge for cutting, for the purpose of a vivisector as he dissects the strange organs splayed, arranged, neatly woven together.
The appearance of totalities is a violence which inevitably shatters into a million fragments.