LavĂnia
plalace
- Feb 19, 2024
- 164
Fingers are leather forks. They align, twisting into convenient shapes. I pierce them, meat or vegetables. The essentials, and what I pretend to like. It's impossible to eat forks; they scrape the insides of the teeth, scraping and vibrating a tide of myriad beasts throughout the body. It's possible to eat fingers, tearing them off, biting them, spitting them out.
I try to use my time optimally, yet only memories of love, of the act and custom of living for another person, for a greater reason, in a comfortable illusion where death becomes sacrifice and suffering a tool, continue to haunt me. It's so easy to be deceived, and to surrender to the convenient death that is obsession, even more so when it's desired. I wanted to feel the bag this stranger holds, to know their thoughts as they walk home, on a warm night of shopping that can have many stories, different feelings, and perhaps a conclusion. A woman looks up at the sky, she looks around, waiting for something, hoping. I wanted to feel the other's waiting, their exasperations. A small boy sells candy, to help a family? An insecure income? Calloused hands. Does anyone suffer abuse? Did anyone grow up in a violent family, focused on the consumption of hate and the burning of matter? In everything I see a love, an esoteric distortion that corrupts everything, separates and alienates our understanding. For love, for the failed and futile attempt of this sea of wasps, with enormous tails, agile tongues, and mysterious eyes, I throw myself into suffering, loneliness, dependence, and loss of purpose. I want to enter someone's nerves, feel the connection of their kneecaps, feel the arrangement of their bones, the vibrations of their arid texture, their cartilage. How do they hold that shopping bag? How do they look at the sky? I want to care, I want to see a form different from the one I see, for it to have some significance.
I try to use my time optimally, yet only memories of love, of the act and custom of living for another person, for a greater reason, in a comfortable illusion where death becomes sacrifice and suffering a tool, continue to haunt me. It's so easy to be deceived, and to surrender to the convenient death that is obsession, even more so when it's desired. I wanted to feel the bag this stranger holds, to know their thoughts as they walk home, on a warm night of shopping that can have many stories, different feelings, and perhaps a conclusion. A woman looks up at the sky, she looks around, waiting for something, hoping. I wanted to feel the other's waiting, their exasperations. A small boy sells candy, to help a family? An insecure income? Calloused hands. Does anyone suffer abuse? Did anyone grow up in a violent family, focused on the consumption of hate and the burning of matter? In everything I see a love, an esoteric distortion that corrupts everything, separates and alienates our understanding. For love, for the failed and futile attempt of this sea of wasps, with enormous tails, agile tongues, and mysterious eyes, I throw myself into suffering, loneliness, dependence, and loss of purpose. I want to enter someone's nerves, feel the connection of their kneecaps, feel the arrangement of their bones, the vibrations of their arid texture, their cartilage. How do they hold that shopping bag? How do they look at the sky? I want to care, I want to see a form different from the one I see, for it to have some significance.
