To be me is to seek no apologies for living: To be human, fully in flesh and spirit- never to waiver from expressing how I feel and drowning in my pool of streams of consciousness. At times, letting stoicism take a bite out of time maddens me into despair and I end up being condescending to those I love. When jealousy brews in this chalice I sip- life; I drink it all and serve poetry in my bitterness…
I can’t be a saint to love without a sight for flesh. I can’t be innocence, with a mind of a sage to render understanding love. I am no strait-laced philosopher holding a stance to prejudices or conceptions of abstraction by mere man – they only fascinate me as they trace through lines of truth and ostentatious glamour of reason. I am a maddening infusion of intuition and instinct yet accursed with a discerning gift for abstracting concepts. An Artist- I can’t be contained in a skull that convicts saints and speaks of what’s proper to be good… I am good. I just want to live: to play with duality and make a fool of those who think they are wise- To love somebody in truth and spirit- To be a blind bum on the street playing the guitar for a gypsy woman who knows what it is to be free. The ultimatum of free… & finds pleasure in the jealousy of a lover she loves, yet a mystery.
I am a free thinker. One who would glorify the devil for his plunder of flesh whispering night after night: What do you desire? One who finds solace in redemption every morning from God, for fate is not done with him and destiny holds the letters that tell his story of one who strode off the well-worn path in labour for love.
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How is it for lovers to love without letters and play of words? How do they love without poetry however rugged and raw it may be? How do they hide in words of others and have no sincerity or lies of their own? How do they feel when they find no pleasure in stealth of their own art? I am weird- so I am told. Intense. Lost. A madman… I once loved a girl with letters but all they did was fill her journal of admirers and ‘weirdoes’. My postman chose to retire and my well ran dry for there was only wonder in her eyes as to what kind of love is this. What the devil is this? We ended up calling it obsession and self-pity. I was a fool for not realising love is the active concern for the life and the growth of that which we love… I was wrong to love that which was past my age. A jejune spirit which wills to paint love.
My kind of love is when two lovers, dressed in masks run around this faceless woven society orthodoxly plundering all fruits profane humming a ballad that only speaks to them. Free of all chains that shackle their humanity. I wanted to be one with her and be free and different. I was different. She was understanding. She could only be so. All that she wrote. If only she could see through my eyes when words ran dry and reticence flawed the chatter. How I would stare in silence looking for words to paint her with love but never would they be perfect. In all this I found myself. I lost her to the sadist in me escaping my realities but found myself. We never found love for I was “different”. I was real.
I am neither saint nor sinner… I am neither madman nor sane.
I am a mystery. I am life with all its absurdity. I am destined… I am free: always have been.
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