Eventually no one cares. Neither about your fiber, your DNA, nor your passions that burn in a language that only GOD SPEAKS.
And it's not their fault. No, of course, it's yours. And eventually, they've simply got to clarify that point. In a language that only reeks of condescension.
You spend hours doing god-knows-what and you're a recluse and you don't send Christmas cards. And you can see right through just about every charade because you have sight. And you can hear things that aren't even emitting any frequencies at any amplitude because you've got sight. And if you share these thoughts, these truths, that indeed are self-evident, with anyone but yourself-- well then, eventually-- you'll be mocked. And you know their mockery is fear.
"You poor thing," they say, after inserting insidious jabs about what a terrible person, selfish and stupid, you are and have been. "You poor thing," they say, "we all make mistakes. And you can always count on me."
And it's transparent and wouldn't it be, to anyone?
It's just a green-eyed monster.
They'll say it, plainly, to drive it home, what fool you are-- how much you've disappointed them. But shit, you're the one who feels disappointed.
By the WEAKNESS and the true BETRAYAL, of those who've claimed to understand.
And you're sickened by it.
But
it's lonely. The ennobled trumpet behind your life is only heard by
those few that live the way you do, with one foot, not planted firmly on
anything, but en pointe in your ribbon shoes, the kind of for pros-- and the other drawing circles on the surface in ronde de jambe a terre until you lift it straight up into the air, along with your arm, and you reach up into the stratosphere, that, is how you live.
There are so very few who understand, who can relate, well
enough at all, to remain satisfied. Perhaps only those whose passions
somewhat match your own. The ones with whom you build, really build,
dream-build, truly build, not just the verb from the Hallmark tautology-
your collaborators, perhaps. Or another beautiful girl who translates
her emotions to gigantic murals. The odd, the cursed the blessed the
dabblers in magic. And you know you are blessed for they are in your
life.
And you can't convince, deceive, deliberately or not, that you are something wrong. That Grandfather Sky skimped, that you are lower than your are. The ennobled trumpet sounds for the nobles, and I am a Noble, in the Nietzschean sense.
And I won't, and simply don't fail to see the agendas and the questionable behavior caused by ego laceration. And it you, who disappoints, in that your honesty ends where your resentment begins. In order to maintain your positive face, you mustn't show it, that ugly sentiment that you know doesn't flatter. And because I have touch, I can feel it.
And it feels like dried blood.
