When one wears badges of misery
There is skill gained in duality
That smooths uneven terrain
Exposing desire to drive anywhere
That will spare the deflation of another’s
No one in the room will talk about the fresh scars on his arm. It isn’t that I’m morbid, nor curious for curiosity sake. But he hasn’t had time to cook his emotions, or history. He is raw.
Tasting another’s reality with compassion is like sitting at a sushi bar and eating whatever is brought to the table without complaint. You don’t need to like it, and you don’t need to stay until closing time, but love, it will keep you chained to your seat, until you’re as raw as what’s being served.
There aren’t enough of these type of food establishments where I love, but I live where I live. Why is our rawness costumed and served with color if our survival as a species is destined for extinction when nibbling on zero nutritional substance from decor and condiment?
Imagine if honey came with hair accessories and required a ponytail before it could be tasted. But maybe it does.