We let love plague our hearts and oh did we enjoy dying a bit each time we felt loved! We lied to all that we believed to be true just for that paradox of a feeling we call belonging. Oh & life! What words have we in our pockets to sprinkle around every time we wondered what it really was. Our endless phantasms of immortality were laid bare and burnt alive with the mere whispers of lips on our skins. Serving ourselves, carrying the shards of our broken hearts, seeking those whose splinters go well with ours and holding onto those pieces so hard that all the cuts we gifted ourselves from it practically replacing the lines on our palms and still holding onto hope of finding a fellow crazy crazy enough to shake hands with us merging the mosaic of our bleeding souls, drenched in all but death amounting to love, pain, guilt, loathe, bliss, misery agony and of all, a lack of peace, and hoping furthermore that whatever emptiness we each have housed in ourselves, having paid for in goodbyes and tears, would fill each others’. And in this pursuit of whatever it was we were seeking, all we found was soon found adrift for we settled for nothing less than everything and we kept letting go of every blade of reality we’ve encountered for the pseodos we’ve been imagining forever and as we waited forever forever, only now do we realize the endless rails of lunacy we’ve journeyed, destining ourselves to destinations we were never destined to arrive at, leaving behind our destinies if there ever were such things. And tonight, we weep again, collective as a race, for all that we’ve let go and all that we never found still ignorant of all that we’re left with to be found right inside our rib-cages just deep enough to dive in and right out of reach and never were we told that we need only ask ourselves if we knew what exactly we have defined as love and that if we couldn’t answer it, we were yet to find it and if we could, we were either insane or just too optimistic & articulate & materialistic.
But I could.
I did define love for myself and I won’t mind if I’d be institutionalized for that.
So I’ve defined love to the paper in whispers of ink in one word.
And all that the creases and stains on that granny of a sheet have done was two things.
Laugh & pity.