Looking Forward

Always needing to taste the honeydew hanging on the end of the leaf, we move with a motivation as primitive as that which drives a snail. Oxymoronic, idiotic, clandestine.

Grease the gears, oil the engine, wax your skin. Kiss freely and directly, aimed and delivered to a mouth of your choosing. Hold hands with death, and laugh in the ebony fog, breathing bravely as it fills you.

Your purpose is dissatisfaction, your passion is inaction, and we sit together, with narrowed eyes, caught in a spiral of short lived laughter. This moment is alone in our palms, a child of our dreams. It is brimming with latent potential, and burning at its own organs with desire. This is life, in pure and fickle form. These morals and ideals, those which bind us to lofty ambitions, are constructions. They were born when we clenched our fingers tightly around our tools and set to work rebuilding the clay from which we were born. This is humanity but it is not life.

Life is the gritty undercurrent, a flow that cannot lie. Life is both beautiful and grotesque, a display so jarring it is scarcely defined. Life is in constant motion, a creature so elusive that records are outdated as they are written. Life is vile yet straightforward, without room for complication or confusion. Depend on life, as life depends on you. After all, it is the water in your cup and the soil around your grave, the fire in your belly and the vomit in your bathroom sink.

This is action and honesty, simple but overarching. Take your seat and begin.