severance, Repeat
Lilian Lucy Davidson (1893-1954) http://www.courant.com/
Severance of body from soul is not necessarily death, but it probably feels better when it is. The blocks of stones and wood that weigh us down when leaving or being left by, anything or anyone loved physically berates and scathes the glossy veneer of our lives causing us to play catch up to the masks and costumes we wear every day in the endless parades that are our lives.
Square pegs in round divots, we try to hug to what we think has been preordained, dowry paid with the chits earned against debts incurred from our own blood, from our own tree, poisoning our fruit, making us unconsciously sour to our own existence. If not soured, then all too eager to fulfill what we assume to be our own destiny, blindly plodding along into the unknown abyss that swallows everyone.
Like ants, we trundle in service of this or that, scouring our little corners of the world, pausing only to pleasure ourselves with the lives and suffering of others…the same suffering and viscous hate we wade through every day and night, but cannot, will not admit it.
If we did, if we confessed to living with emotions, distaste against the trundling of the others, seeing ourselves naked, seeing ourselves alone, we would die of shame, torn apart by sharp-fanged regrets we cannot know, shredding our flesh, rending our bodies, shorn and uneven strips that will only go on to produce and fuel and nurture anguish in our descendants whose lives will only be gnawed by an itch in the back of their minds, repeating…repeating…
The Brain of hawkdad73 