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| Poemission |
| Proud Flesh |
| If, as the Buddhists say, all desire leads to suffering, then I have lusted myself down into this abyss, expecting perfection and then shying away from its brilliance. You see, the flame did burn when I dared touch it, and my proud flesh grows callous with age. I�ll still ask where is the folly in the appreciation of that which is desired, settling, temporarily, for pieces of the puzzle �� a pretty face, a mischievous nature, youth, a rebellious attitude, an artistic bent, and all variations of form and tonalities � yet never finding the whole set, just assembling the parts in my memory�s keep: a cumulative dream. I have come to believe that love must be unconditional to be real, not merely self-serving or self-defeating; neither my meaningless conquests and predatory feeds, nor those sacred objects of elementary-school desire, the phantoms of fantasy deemed out of reach account for anything but symbols of my own supposed inferiority. I can still see myself on the horizon sailing in a vessel of love, but the mist grows thicker. Still, when it does clear, I hope I am not pressed to decide the attitude of my stance, whether I�m worshiping from afar, lifting her up on a pedestal. or forcing her down on her knees. I believe they all apply, and a single choice is inconceivable. Complexity increases my involvement, and I will rule out nothing. It�s a waste how the sentiment of youth is dragged through the desensitization of time... or is it a blessing? |