She’d died just to become something she wasn’t
— Like the frosted tips of his hair
A patch over one eye hid her from view
— She was his second
It felt like the release of a progressive silence
— A cancer growing to hold words together as the lungs fell apart
It was her, refusing to be hidden
— Love escapes all prisons when disrobed from obstructions to freedom
It was impact, an overlapping of sadness and loss not extracted in death, nor aligned with the voice of life
— Grace is the light that shines in the hollow of dismal occlusion
An obsession with death is an interest in life.
An obsession with love is an interest in all things perceived not to be.
An obsession with power is an interest in undiscovering weakness.
Man doesn’t study man because he understands himself, or does he?
Adults don’t pass through this world without the massage of squalor, or the kiss of hatred formed out of ever-evolving sanctimonious perceptions used to diagnose time-stamped thoughts, and medicate expired actions.
Man knows nothing except truth; so his studies, obsessions, criticisms, and praises serve to reveal the distances he will travel to build authenticity. Man doesn’t acquire his honesty in miles, but earns it through self-discovery.
Through the darkness and light hidden in our gaze, we are revealed to one another, distinguishing truth from fiction, and exemplifying our similarities.