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| Poemission |
| Proud Flesh |
| If, as the Buddhists say, all desire leads to suffering, then I have lusted myself down into this abyss, expecting perfection and then shying away from its brilliance. You see, the flame did burn when I dared touch it, and my proud flesh grows callous with age. I’ll still ask where is the folly in the appreciation of that which is desired, settling, temporarily, for pieces of the puzzle –– a pretty face, a mischievous nature, youth, a rebellious attitude, an artistic bent, and all variations of form and tonalities – yet never finding the whole set, just assembling the parts in my memory’s keep: a cumulative dream. I have come to believe that love must be unconditional to be real, not merely self-serving or self-defeating; neither my meaningless conquests and predatory feeds, nor those sacred objects of elementary-school desire, the phantoms of fantasy deemed out of reach account for anything but symbols of my own supposed inferiority. I can still see myself on the horizon sailing in a vessel of love, but the mist grows thicker. Still, when it does clear, I hope I am not pressed to decide the attitude of my stance, whether I’m worshiping from afar, lifting her up on a pedestal. or forcing her down on her knees. I believe they all apply, and a single choice is inconceivable. Complexity increases my involvement, and I will rule out nothing. It’s a waste how the sentiment of youth is dragged through the desensitization of time... or is it a blessing? |