Part of the furniture
- Apr 18, 2004
A Flirtatious Suffering
Throw away the key. Lock the door. Leave yourself open so you can have more. Looking, searching and peering through every millimetre of the keyhole. The doorway that leads to loves easy tears. Love's blind mind. The scraping at the wood. The cries, the yearning to see what it is like on on that side of the room.
The punishing emotion becomes its own depravity. The blossom of failure. The fine razor edge that cuts the join. The parallel line that defines the hurt for which we all live. Thoughts become emotion A filled brain of confusion that acts. The words. The words entwined with action, confusion and absurdity. A suffering that deviates so much that it perplexes inaction. A fear. A fear bent on compulsion yet unable to act. The days and hours spent there. Stuck in that moment of wanting the other - and what is in that room. Could it be just lust? Perhaps even real love?
Alone, in lust and desire. The finality of its euphemism and laws dictate loves easy tears. The flirtatious suffering and its lament lead to self-torture. Yet, the duality of it causes pain on both sides of the room. Love non-reciprocating. Pain. More confusion and words lost in a code unable to be conveyed to either side - a love that punishes dichotomy. It becomes so blinding that only ambivalence and hared can be the only outcome to pursue. Yet with irony, we all do this to some extent. The same downtrodden path repeatedly malignant.
Despite the scratches and blood left on both sides of that wooden door. Mistakes are learned and unlearned. Until we say to each other - no more pain.