the cold is a brute force of nature. it digs beneath our skins until our entire posture is rigid, shivering like an old Harley to generate heat and stay awake.
did you know that before death, there can be euphoric release? it’s like all the rushes and excitements of our lives help us practice for this crucial moment of energy expansion. i feel this uplifting, downshifted spurt of adrenaline on runs, when playing music, during the momentous climax of a song, when catching a glimpse of surreal beauty from the sidewalk, or even when spilling black ink across a thin page.
is it motivating to be hooked on such a release? why do we chase our dreams if not to reap their tingling, crashed-wave rewards?
the ocean is there, waiting for anything that dares exploration to commence their adventure. when the sun shines bright, glare takes all depth away. most of our planet shifts into a two-dimensional sketch of tides, currents, and foam.
similar to the ocean, the rush previously explained seems so primal that it also presents itself with a binary layout. life is a drone of monotony without it; storms rage with it. the crown is the only item in focus with it; we see a water-colored scene without it.
could i live without the highest peaks? could i survive without my deepest valleys?
i was once told beauty is as painful as it is gorgeous. to be captivated is to be expunged and kicked out.
how is my two-bedroom split-level the same, even when i see it differently? the plants are rebounding just as they are dying. the kitchen succumbs to exploded crumbs while dish soap counters with a facelift.
where is the gray area that our poets say is permeating all of existence? through my eyes is a contrasted, saturated society where negatives flip on and off. interpretations are either filling their guts or spilling them. animated individuals are on the road to their future success while failing miserably. i can tarnish such a widespread gamut of reputation because i include myself in their chamber.
if the surrounding environments are each their own scene of massacre or salvation, constantly flipping between the two, i’d like to roost the light switch out of hiding, cut its wires, and function in the middle of dawn and dusk. let me return to the natural cycle of our solar system.
if our earth stopped rotating because it wanted a darker tan on its abdomen, its back would turn the palest of white shades. so when i devote resources to piano, my drumming fingers knot up like tumored tree trunks. my fingers find confidence in the keys, but only timorous twitches on the snare.
i worry severely about the trends and their sloped ridges. there is achievement, and there is off-road butchering. am i paving new roads for the common good, or plastering over an endangered forest? context, disappointingly, resides in the past.
second-guessing has been shadowed in a negative light. leaders act. but what do revolutionaries do?
– D K T