Le monde est né
The world began as I awoke from the hard dream. Through the sweat and fever of misunderstood symbolism and unfounded fears, I trudged into consciousness to behold you. It was warm in the bed next to you. Your smell rose through the sheets and wafted into the air like flowers, freshly bloomed.
Intoxicated, I lay back down and bathed in it.
It was like this every morning, of every day, since the world began and I wished it would be so until the sun collapsed on itself. Leaving all for dark.
Le monde est beau.
It is sometimes hard to remember the morning. Our days are filled with discontent. Our dreams have been vanquished, alongside lost empires of grace. Vanquished by those who feed on our souls. Out of hunger and out of loneliness.
But most of all, they feed for the sheer joy of the kill.
I surf this wave of discontent hoping for a smoother ride, hoping that it doesn’t crash and burn. Hoping beyond all reason that I don’t end up a hollowed out shell of a man. Living for all the wrong reasons and dying for the only one left.
Le monde est terrible
Yet despite all of the toils we share, the world is still a beautiful place, with many wonders that continue to unfold.
And you-the most wondrous of them all-how do you unfold?
Like the petals of a flower that bring a sweet aroma to the air?
Like the layers of an onion that make me cry? Or is it more like a summer storm in the east. Hot and humid before the roiling tempest arrives. A tempest that Zeus himself would have been proud of.
Then the calm, the clearing of the air and the fresh breeze.
Le monde est l’amour
We are a species of duality. We want what we can’t have and we have what we don’t want. It is a hard piece of knowledge to own this thought. Can we break this chain?
Do we even want to? I wish I knew for sure.
I wish I could still smell you in the breeze.
I wish I could…
I look for you over the wires. I look for you around the corner. I look for you in every pair eyes that I see on the street. Our search for love has found new paths to confuse us, but none of them arrive at the destination any sooner. So we date via proxy. We love via electronics. We pretend to speak volumes with only 160 characters.
Yet we hang our heads in shame, owning the fact, that we need so much help to find that wondrous bed in the morning of the world.