sometimes when you're looking at something beautiful it's easy to miss the storm clouds racing up from behind you to cover the sun.
and so you find yourself grieving again. your natural state, how could you let yourself forget? how could you let the trappings distract you to the point where you forgot what was at the core? they aren't the center. the center is somewhere deep inside, and when it breaks the whole thing falls apart.
the problem with the fickle nature of human attention is that you can tattoo something on your very soul and it will still disappear when you look away. it will still come loose and you'll trip over it on your way to somewhere else.
when the hole was vast and gaping you filled it with the only thing with the power to obscure the edges completely, make use of them in a way that made you forget they were there. no one ever told you you were selling it bit by bit to finance the newer, prettier things you convinced yourself you wanted more.
once again (and again and again and again) you took the center beam for granted until it collapsed under the weight of all the things you added and suddenly you had nothing at all.
nothing but a pile of rubble you were given the power to turn into something more, nothing but the faces of the things you sacrificed, nothing but the dust left behind when you forget the reasons and let yourself drift until...
...the flying always necessitates the fall.
from here you can see the sky and you want to tell the world what a sky it is, how boundless and infinite, how pure and untainted and true, but your mouth is full of ashes and sand and the broken promises you bought with little bits and baubles.
"nothing," you thought, "not much, anyway"
you never knew, but ignorance isn't the right currency here.
and so you find yourself grieving again. your natural state, how could you let yourself forget? how could you let the trappings distract you to the point where you forgot what was at the core? they aren't the center. the center is somewhere deep inside, and when it breaks the whole thing falls apart.
the problem with the fickle nature of human attention is that you can tattoo something on your very soul and it will still disappear when you look away. it will still come loose and you'll trip over it on your way to somewhere else.
when the hole was vast and gaping you filled it with the only thing with the power to obscure the edges completely, make use of them in a way that made you forget they were there. no one ever told you you were selling it bit by bit to finance the newer, prettier things you convinced yourself you wanted more.
once again (and again and again and again) you took the center beam for granted until it collapsed under the weight of all the things you added and suddenly you had nothing at all.
nothing but a pile of rubble you were given the power to turn into something more, nothing but the faces of the things you sacrificed, nothing but the dust left behind when you forget the reasons and let yourself drift until...
...the flying always necessitates the fall.
from here you can see the sky and you want to tell the world what a sky it is, how boundless and infinite, how pure and untainted and true, but your mouth is full of ashes and sand and the broken promises you bought with little bits and baubles.
"nothing," you thought, "not much, anyway"
you never knew, but ignorance isn't the right currency here.
