It's not a philosophy to be studied past chemical reactions attached to the brain like carbon black ink under the skin. Not meant to be studied at all.
It's not a human thing in exclusion, for all worthwhile things feel affection and adversion.
A mother can love her child, a coward his own life, a drunk the bottle that brings the severance of memory from judgement.
A little girl the letters from admirers not of her soul but of her body painted in the plain translucent white of the mind that has no boundaries or shame in rearranging it into something naked and afraid.
People, ecstasy, Calvary; one can love all of these things, fear these things. Because Love is the fear of loss; the prescient memory of pain.
Of the knowledge that there can come and will come the day the connection won't be there and what will remain is something cruel that spells life is fair only not to you.
But what the hell do I know? I'm not going to trivialize emotions on a surgeon's table.
Life is short and even shorter when it's lived. Enjoy.
Works:
- "Lawndale, Season Four," chapters eleven, twelve, and thirteen, by WildDogJJ.
News:
- Splendora's "You're Standing On My Neck" as manipulated in the season three premiere in the Français version of the show.
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