on lexical and artistic dissatisfaction

I profoundly despise the way that we remain trapped into old and somewhat predictable clichés of ourselves, patterns identified long ago and that we can never escape from. Mostly hurtful, and always disappointing, such patterns never seem to translate who we essentially are, besides being insecure and mildly depressed walking dilemmata. The pain does not reveal itself as something translatable in any form. Art sometimes manages to express some of it, but still the words, sounds and colors are too vague, sheerly failed attempts.

Useless language.

< 3

My main muse. Then, now and forever.
I hope my words can somehow reflect how much your love and supportiveness have inspired and saved me, when nothing else would.

Live on. For the next 68 years, and into eternity.

Struggles for Balance (Lucy V)

She balances her damaged body,
tremblingly, as she stands on the fine line
between tragedy and stupidity.
If aiming for a fall,
she would choose the shallower side, or what seemed like it.
Knowing whereabouts and consequences
of her violence, self-inflicted,
and well-aware of the damages caused
with the arrival of her explosion.
Knowledge which does not agree
to maintain the equilibrium.

Considering the able leaps of faith,
one of which may do her well,
it becomes hard deciding not to fall.
But the story was told and repeated a thousand times before.
There will be no need for any trial or anything
of such nature,
with causes so sheer and desires so cruelly simple.
Intentions never lie, after all,
and neither hide their perpetrators.
Gallows will always be gallows,
and each crime to its own.

Lucy wondered, and sighed
at the mischief of her own weak will
and distorted sight.

So she began to walk again.