In this chaotic blend, we find acceptance of others as they are, relinquishing claims to parents, a tragic awareness of our own lives amid a corduroy revival, and even the tempting sweetness of destruction. She moved through life with a swift gait, never looking around or back. Rules were rules, faith was faith, and hysteria was hysteria.
Bread and circuses multiplied, interest waned, time troubled the mind, daylight hurt the eyes, and a bottle of water healed the imagination. Something gnawed at her, an internal torment rising to her fingertips, reaching for her neck, and cobwebbing her bright, innocent mind. Days dragged on, nights burned, strange and tense.
Everything seemed clear—living, working, studying, wanting, getting angry. It was all normal, sometimes even excellent. Yet, it was terrifying to think that someone else might be different, that some people could feel the touch of autumn as they left a café and embrace the winds, sensing their young molecules brush against their cheek and chest, gently rustling their hair with invisible hands.
This love cannot be caught or claimed. It flows around us like a young wind, taking away superficial anxieties and throwing us together with bare emotions. Do you want to claim it? No, it won't work, for just yesterday you spoke of a strange discontent with the world, tearing space with your presence, your sharp attacks frightening my shadow.
Do you want all the treasures of the sensual world to belong solely to you? No, it won't work, for you cannot reconcile your feelings with your own. You crave warmth and love? Yes, so do I.
So what torments you, haunting you by day and driving you into dreams at night? Where do you live your pain and hopes? With whom will you spend your final unconscious moments? Tell me about yourself. Let your dreams drive you to frenzy, revealing the primal need for love and recognition.
I will try to survive this horror of self-denial for the great mother goddess, for whom you are ready to kneel at the altar and pray for forty years. Wake up the next morning, and the world will invade you, filling your emptiness, and you will never be alone again.
Your stern gaze at the center is so strong and powerful, softer and languid at the edges. I peer into your eyes and see only myself. How long have you swallowed me? How long has my image fueled your rage? How long will you run through your labyrinths?
The severity of your rejection of others astonishes me. I fear the depth of your passion for renunciation. I struggle to hold onto myself, battling the urge to self-destruct before you. My neurosis drives me to defend myself. I seek a way to absorb you or, at least, protect myself.
You are strong and swift; I am deep and alluring. Our dialogue is not between you and me. One day, you'll tell me how it was, for now, I walk the hot coals you left in the dense night forest.
The fire within you will not kill any man; it will incinerate him instantly. The flame of the mother candle ignited the withered tree of the world, warming the entire space but not you. Dreaming of running in an unfamiliar city, among marble buildings and green trees, crossing a bridge, brings me closer to reality, connecting my future to my past.
Take a bit of the future now and infuse your past with it. Shape yourself with the face of that distant star you touch every evening while sitting in the kitchen, reading a book. Fill yourself with yourself. Stand up and go to sleep.