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| If so what does it even see? The image of both itself and the looking glass through which it finds self-realization. But, what of the other mirror? It, too, realizes itself and shares the same image as the first mirror. They find themselves and one another, intertwined and entangled as one, together repeating over into infinity.
Identity. Theirs becomes no more than that which gazes upon them. Together they are both single objects in indefinite union.
Goodness. What is goodness? It is the simplest form of a thing. It is a timeless piece of work preserved within an immutable photograph, given no voice, no thought, no action which could taint its likeness - its goodness.
When God created light, He saw that it was good. When He created the Earth and the Seas, and when the earth yielded plantlife, He saw that it was good. When He created the Moon, Stars, and Sun, and when He filled the earth and seas with birds and fish, and created every living creature which crawled and creeped upon the earth, He saw that it was good. Finally, when God created Human in His image, giving him dominion over the earth, He then looked upon all that He'd created (all of these simple beings lacking any propensity towards betrayal) and saw that it was good.
If only the moment was suspended, then goodness could have been perpetuated. If a thing is perfect, what is the point of "time"? "Change"? Why change when you lack nothing essential to the whole? Time wears away at masterpieces, destroys entire species of animals, and reveals the purest souls as nothing other than unsophisticated enough to be generalized as "good" - for lack of an observer's better word.
God loved Adam and Eve better for their ignorance and simplicity, for when there became such a thing as knowledge and intelligence they were made to be fools.
Sweetness is the most terrible word with which to descibe a human being. Oftentimes we reserve it for the most quiet, unexpressive, or simple-minded people we meet. And why is that? Because they lack the capacity or facility to let us down. The most innocent people are innocent in their inclination towards inaction only. And is this not a part of goodness? Perpetual inanimation? Or is this the definition of seeming to be good?
It is a frozen veil. The most wonderful thoughts swirl within the imagination at the sight of a wrapped giftbox, personalized under our name. It would be better if we all received presents and never opened them. As soon as the paper is torn, however, the thing within becomes less perfect - it becomes more definable - it becomes both what it is and everything it could never be.
What sadness. It is inevitable motion towards betrayal - both to itself and those weened into instilling that initial hope and standard. | | |
| Pushed, given weight and station beyond due and admittance of spite and bitter displeasure. Neither made clear nor loud but silenced within the garden left untended by the right hand. The right hand made justified hand. The left hand made, like its Latin root, sinister one. I will not be made as such.
I will be justified, steady, made level, made sure. I've seen many angles and edges of the same profound shape. Naivity knows only what naivity believes, but fails to see or recognize truth in its ignorance of it.
It follows the easy, surounding influences, draws in nearer and nearer to temptation and empathy - wanting in its understanding of its own environment.
It is like water, emulation and embodiment of its container. Stolen, taken as necessary and immediately bent to will. Influences which it does not understand.
It does not understand.
Oh heart, what half-witted games of perverted self-pleasure you play while alien from whence you made yourself home. Sleep sleep sleep sleep sleep so soundly, so lulled by what was once the resonating fibres of tender desire. The same which now lacks in its airy presence - its being needed, wanted, remembered. It makes itself unlike the umbrella, tapped away in rhythm upon a learning-to-loving cranium.
The world. The silver platter. The hand. The trembling arm. The detested body. The smaller feet. The empty hand. | | |
| Do not. Abstain from it whether love is made or not. Desperation, bloodred nails, hardwood splintering, explosions of pain and breath, sweat and toil, humid air, oxygen - what oxygen? - desperation. | | |
| Is there a hand grasping mine? Do I hang by it or do I keep it from falling? There is always a limit to what you do. There is only so close that one can get to the other. The fragile bubble has popped, we have woken up. It is time to erect a monument made and based upon principle and ideology - not blind passion or surrender to winds and waves. It is the self respect of two souls made one and its earthly container which must abide and live up to and honor that timeless entity. It crackles and breaks and boils and bubbles, all beneath the surface it churns and yearns and aches unseen from foreign eyes - unseen by distant eyes. But is it felt? Do its tremors echo and thump and thunder thousands of miles outward? Can you feel it? Does its rhythm coincide with your own heart? If you don't feel it, then yes, maybe it does coincide with your heart. "Memories are all I have left and all I've left". | | |
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