Yin & Yang
Sunlight, sideways and glinting, laughter and words of adoration. Your heart swells and fills your chest, your throat, your belly, and your toes are full of life, full of love. The moments of living without thinking are few and far between but you have had some, a few, several dozen. Perfection as a human being is fleeting, rare like a diamond that never caused pain. We are meant to suffer, religion teaches us this ache is part of existing, so how then, can you possibly have lived with this much delirious pleasure? Have you done so many drugs that the shackles of logic and reason have left you unbound?
Are you capable of losing your reality and finding a new existence, through the layers of psychedelic chaos and understated heart ache?
There are times when I felt alive, truly alive, so alive that I thought I might die. Moments of pureness, of light and air and breath and soul and how could I continue living, how could I possibly stay here on this plane of existence when I know how much it hurts to be human?
Smiling on the outside, and screaming on the inside. The vastness of this exhaustion is like a desert full of rain. I am a conundrum, unable to exist and unable to die. The point in the middle of the map is my breaking point, but the next stop on the train tracks is the beginning of the race. We are not human - we are more than that.
To be human is to be flawed, to be wicked, to be joyous, to be perfection, to be darkness.
I am all of those things, so sad that I may shatter into pieces, at the same time catching all my pieces in my open hands, lifting the concept of satisfaction to the sun - an offering to the gods that watch us suffer. We are not human, we are less than human. We are skin and bones and meat and blood and sadness and evil and pure and good. How can we be all those things?
How am I supposed to continue when I know how much I have lost, and how much I have gained?
The winner isn’t eating chicken dinner, no the winner is likely hungry still, holding their guts in like a samurai of death, holding tight to their own innards, coiled like spaghetti and marinara, the Italian recipe of love, guts and pasta, garlic and blood, we are vampires in the dark and werewolves in the light, none of us have answers and all of us have questions.
Graffiti artist credit- Drake
