As much as I would love to stand on this podium with a poem, I feel todays event should be rather different. I could either; A, tell a story with a rhythmized structure or a backbone cluster. On the contrary, B, very plain and boring with much more reading than enjoying. I, as of this word forward indulge in the latter.
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How strange this game of life is, humans so- informed, well enough so that lying was made. An evil structure that is built on no stronger of a foundation for the cause as deceiving. The idea, nay, art of resewing the fabrics of trust, memory, and faith. An immaculate, and indescribable carpet-pad. Every memory- good, bad, indifferent. This carpet of every conceivable second of a persons being, persuading their decisions, emotions, personality, sociality, and cells. This rug is held together with glue, no normal glue at that. A glue that mixed in with gasoline. This awestriking rug of life can be overwhelmed with devastating heat, torment, and discomposure with a single spark. That's all it takes to break someone down to their frame. One single spark and you can send man from the peaks of Everest to the pits of the Mariana Trench. "The key to “lying” is, of course, intent."
"Lying"
What a grotesque word. Lying. Liar. Lied. Start the word with an L and annunciate the Y/I however your heart screams, speaks, or whispers. You lied to me. You tricked me, you took what I was happiest thinking, what fueled me, my drive, my ambition, my reason. You broke it. You are a liar. I cannot trust you, me, anyone that resembles the context of your character regardless if its you or not. Because of what you did. There is no health in a heart that deceives a human for any other reason than worry.
Seems I've been side-tracked.
Life is strange. Really, I could leave it at that, and context-less, a majority of the populous would agree. Strange, how strange is that, life is strange. Everyone knows the punishment for birth is death and no one can say for sure why. Everyone is given the titles of lessons at birth and throughout life, though they are just measly titles. No description, clarification or questioning. Everyone is handed by the Devine, a blank sheet of paper. Your father is dead, maybe natural, maybe murder, maybe unquestioned; be it as it may, you check your sheet of paper and see 5 bold, dark, gothic letters.
"Grief"
But the paper says no more. Desperately looking at these words clueless as to the reason or how or why, you grab your finger, pricked and bleeding. You write out the definition. Not the definition as it is truly defined, not by human nature but by the heart, rather, by the way you felt. The dogma of your brain and hearts arguments. How strange. No really, this is no poetic, philosophically based nature of writing and thought. This is reality. This is the world our blood pumps in, this is the world men kill without reason in. This is the world life is created and destroyed. This is the world no one can change despite our flawed view of it, and our attempts at trying. The world we live in is a world where people, every single one of us, so many people the human mind through hundreds of thousands of years of evolution still cannot grasp. This is the world where people think. No one can describe or understand it, but everyone will agree its strange.
I cannot say for certain where I was going with that
I am sitting here at my computer. It is 1:55 AM, September 10, 2021. Clicking away at my computer thinking of things to put on this website. I have no place to speak on love. I sit here, leaned back and bewildered with a wave of realization that I have no words for love. I write, not with any reason in mind, I just do it and share it. But of all the words I can write on here, I can't describe love. It breaks my heart.
I'm going to be thinking about this. I have not felt companioning love.
I just can't help but feel lost on my attempts at words and truth, I wrote about trickery and grief, whilst never having lost something to the clasping hands of death. How can I write on grief never having mourned. Thus what gives me the right to opinionate about dishonesty regardless if I am farthest from a stranger... I'm an accomplice and a soulmate to lying. Such a vulgur word I avoided using it, hence replacements.
I am hurt at the realization of my blissful unawareness. My ignorance. My inability to process feelings.
My mind is blank, I have no more thoughts or words to write. I sit here desperately trying to think of something to put, an emotion, a thought but my head reins hollow... why.
I will continue later, thank you, goodbye.