art and life
please forgive me, i know i get these things confused, and maybe there is no real line between them, and i know that already, and this is already resolved because it's already set in motion, but (to make excuses) these repetitions are madness, an unbearable madness, but when they turn into a metaphor they become so beautiful. and at those moments, all of our failings and fragility become powerful in that other light. and if i could live in that light all the time, whatever is unbearable becomes the thing that opens up to something more utterly beautiful than we could create with our mad designs. in this, however, i think this is something i need to leave outside the realm of art and life so i can get to the next thing that's calling, those things that are desperately calling at my doorstep at three in the morning when everything is becoming heavy, sucking in the last part of night before it gives over to the day again. this, i think this is something that can live or die without my desires anywhere on the table, and maybe then it will have a chance to grow. but i don't know who i'm supposed to be in this next part, who i am supposed to take with me, because all the personas feel wrong, and none of them are lovable unless they are myths. and i can't regenerate ears the way they do in cartoons, and all my spirits carry scars and lost parts with them, and some carry holes in their hearts into eternity. art is myth is a key to unlock a destiny, is an accusation against reality. when my feathers are sticking out, i am not safe. and when the woman with brooms comes sweeping again, this time angrier than the last time, it's time to leave the room until all the ghosts have argued themselves to sleep. it can take years before a construction of a persona reveals itself to be useless, but just a moment outside the room to connect to the heartbeat. the path is the breath. the breath is the road to the heart. the mad fairies there, those are the ones to pay close attention to, they find the gifts left on the table, and when i'm lucky, and when my heart is beating, they wrap them up and send them back before i have the chance to open them. a tragedy averted. this is a fantastic love story. there's not enough time to sort the truth from the lies, and there's not enough room to write the same stupid love song over and over again, not with the music that's just on the other side of that thin veil.