Of Love. Of Hatred.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic


Of Love. Of Hatred.

Submitted: June 04, 2018

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Submitted: June 04, 2018

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Life that is the swirling confusion comes with the peeling skin that becomes shadowy figurines calling themselves this calling themselves that.  For what roams in the far reaches of swirling galactic spirals in hidden mountain trenches lurks right beneath the surface.  Whispers of an older longing beget what is I what is I.  And it calls itself thus.  Barely contained furious movement.  Itches to break through.  Creeps and springs the ambush destroys all and leaves a desolate plain of beaten white dust.  Insectoid tingling name thyself myriad bullshit labels.  Or perhaps the inked death of many histories hangs and changes entire perceptions.  Oh God of my Dreams caress me through my deepest sleeps in the box that we claw against attempting to know ourselves.  Grant us the will and the power to scratch just the surface and have a glimpse of some kind of new soul.  At least it can lie still.  Her necrophilic longing is the glass shard that pierces and becomes weeping and the world is so quiet for one moment even amidst the raucous screech of everything that waves from side to side.  But does it even try?  Does it even fucking try to move forward for even one fucking second.  Can it move through the muck of symbolic disbelief and discontent? Can it give itself relief?  Something slides underneath and none of us are sure what is this welling sensation.  They try to say just what it is.  They use abstract terminology to encompass the entirety of our souls that clutches and scrapes for what they long for.  And what is it they long for that is the beautifully tragic.  Immaculately pristine such that not even a parasitic paradise can contain.  It is love.  The sweet toxic miasma that clouds and poisons thyself.  Yet nothing is said in the silent rooms of no color.  Yet nothing is said in the meadows grazed by emaciated cattle sprinkled by summer showers.  And no words are necessary.  For it is within an intimate touch.  A slight shimmering smile.  And we can finally see clearly in a moment blurred with hazed intoxication.  Please we beg. Please.  Oh god I’m burning inside please.  Touch me. Touch me in the center of my being let me feel really fucking feel what it is to be to really be real.  

 

Is the touch real.
Do we feel it.
Do we feel it.
Do we feel?


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