Funny how lies motivates us through provocation. Such as a denial, "I would not, despite the fact that I can"; or such as assumption, assuming what is most unreal to our reality: "I can, perhaps I will, despite the unlikelihood of circumstances." How thin is the distance of a lie from the truth; how easy to mistake illusion, or a dream, from reality. Today I am but a friend who is so vacant, with much stupor to accommodate friends. Tomorrow, I might be in spaces unraveling what I have dreamed, keeping away from certain vacancy.
In like state, today, I write not-- not for anything at all, not for anything in the world, nor for whom!
I am a poet, sometimes I realize, bereft of real muse.
It's sad to be inspired by all that is passing, such as when I drive the car and see on the road beautiful scenery, such as the art of the heavens. Yet to be amused by something I cannot touch, I cannot keep in my pocket, I cannot infuse in my muscles, but instead pass through-- just pass through without the assurance of getting back with it again
Can a thought of a being as a being become a lie? How about the proclamation of a truth that have expired, after having transpired for but a brief moment despite infinity, a statement that (was) true but is not anymore? Or how about the truth that one feels inside without ...
