Isn’t life simply philosophical or literary or magnificent artifice? Although there is truth in beauty, life frustrates beauty. Beauty is truth, ain’t it? Beauty is truth.
I beseeched divine forces and heard an emptied silence. Thundering upon my Neanderthal skull was a desire for love, a need for acceptance, and an insatiable craving for belonging. But I was left alone, neglected, left to rot by accursed misfortune.
Ennui. Ennui. Boredom, heavy, gentle, pulsating boredom, inspires conformity. The herd follows; the crowd acquiesces. She opened herself to hurt and tried vainly to disentangle from regret.
A series of encounters, entanglements, and estrangements – that’s life. By dodging encounter, a solitary individual pursues imperfect desolation. Fragility, delusion, distended egotism, cruel whim and unfortunate circumstances encircle the broken-hearted.
Her heart was shattered long before their love was affirmed. Heartbreak – a ubiquitous tableau – lingered, casting an indelible shadow over her numerous entanglements. As indistinguishable existence rushes by, she stares at a shadow.
She’s heartbroken – left without palliatives. Untreated scars provide stolid comfort. Victimhood, that simple and readily accessible indulgence, grabs hold, mesmerizes, and engorges her being. The chasm between the world and her is left at an irredeemable distance. All the while, she stares at her scars, awaiting propitious pus.
Absorbed in denial, neither beauty nor truth can be grasped.
