isn’t the masterpiece of tragedy laughable?
that the cacophony of living can be preferable to the symphony of death, we find ourselves as those who cling to life like a sailor to the mast of a ship, a masochist, hearing the sirens wail as we fear the ocean, the fear is a masterpiece.
the avoidance of the only certainty perplexes me, as does the trust put within a man standing in the clouds, with furrowed brow, motionless as his children slip into his oceans.
what is hope?
the evaluation of a situation as wretched is implied, but the possibility of an end is not denied, no matter the circumstances, whatever your stance is on religion and the truth it retains, or your cup and how much liquid contains, the careful emphasis kept on this clarity of an absolute rarity like miracles and peace makes man forget the disparity between what we can and can’t get.
the artists huddle in the rubble, under the shadows as men revel in the pain and wait for it to end, and we pen, that the realization of their blindness hides in the shadows of their mind and nears the tip of their tongues, and it’s what they’ll speak of in the last bubble of air that slides out of their lungs.
erosyche 