What if…
Exposed early as a takes-myself-too-seriously, of penny loafers and Brachiopods,
to walk the ocean floor of psychosis, wayward darts, the geography of depressive places,
separated, the canyons of earth-quaked hemispheres, a genetic lava of suicidal tendencies—
Mall Alternative Terry, asks, “You want to give up this album?!”
“Your pride will get you!” My great grandmother warned, “Be your downfall—“
“What if, Kim, what if,” my mother rolled her eyes.
“Welcome to the world of art,” declared Papaver,
and, “That is not how a young lady behaves,”
degraded my father. Make one of these,
your last lines,
your last life, your last hurrah!
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A not insignificant friend - you know the kind that can wake you up in the middle of the night and ask you to drive them to the end of the world and you would - asked me why he wasn't avoiding pain if he might recognise it as such? I strung him a line of how brave the spirit must be in the face of such challenges. But the truth more likely is that it is a question of not recognising the pain as such giving nothing to avoid. Is this then positive progress, or passive arrival?
What if it is neither and suicide is painless?
Two can play at not being the one to ask. Which Fisher can gather those who are done playing and ready to love?
I have had to mull this one over, perhaps frightened by the fears in my own world in regards to pushing an eject button rather than stepping onto each square of the color bridge? Too easy to slam it closed, too much to decipher a little too early as I flirted with knowing.
I fear the Fisher who gathers those who are merely playing with LOVE, or so I thought, but perhaps we are to play where we work? A sandbox which includes two ant hills and the combined and in-bodied creatures we most fear?
And, you are right to point out, Fear is not love we hear. Perhaps, an antecedent....I know a stretch, but encompassing the whole. Fear, pain, love, hope--all are four letter words, to hold a table, foundations of being here in human form?