Dec 2014
Lush draped the walls
Gold freckles cheek to collar
I shook the dust from my lips
And lost hours
I left kisses on dead children
Old as the houses
I grew friends in the field out back
Under dead forests
Guilt
Shattered glass
They’ll cease existing
When I pass
Some hurts feel too often
Like old love
Gold freckles cheek to collar
I shook the dust from my lips
And lost hours
I left kisses on dead children
Old as the houses
I grew friends in the field out back
Under dead forests
Guilt
Shattered glass
They’ll cease existing
When I pass
Some hurts feel too often
Like old love
6:06am, December 3rd 2014
These walls are lush with memories.
Old loves. Old hopes. Old hurts. Old doubts.
Nothing lasts, least of all ourselves.
---
Concerning subjective experience:
A stranger could pass through the street you grew up in and feel nothing. Your experience is solely your own. The sensations during and after can never escape your consciousness. Autobiographies are weak imitations at best.
Subjective experience is a personal legacy that will follow you to your grave. Every bloom, every break; every triumph, fright, shame.
Isn't that heartbreaking?
These walls are lush with memories.
Old loves. Old hopes. Old hurts. Old doubts.
Nothing lasts, least of all ourselves.
---
Concerning subjective experience:
A stranger could pass through the street you grew up in and feel nothing. Your experience is solely your own. The sensations during and after can never escape your consciousness. Autobiographies are weak imitations at best.
Subjective experience is a personal legacy that will follow you to your grave. Every bloom, every break; every triumph, fright, shame.
Isn't that heartbreaking?
