What is it with me and associating myself with objects? Is it poetry? Is it cruelty? Both? The words ring true with me, my soul, but while others seem to enjoy them they do not seem to understand. But for me it is not a matter of mere words. It is myself expressed on paper without the poet's presenc e. Most poets say "I," yet I find myself using "it." Am I it? Am I the objectified unhuman? Do I not deserve the feelings that accompany humanity?
What a torture the act of contemplation is, questioning, confusing, causing chaos in the turmoil of heart and brain. Humans require one another to thrive but objects find difficulty in association. Doomed to solitude, and no ability to call it tragedy. An object may be forgotten -- missed perhaps, but ultimately forgotten in principle. A human grasps the minds and souls of others, steals away a part of them, leaving a void that can never be totally refilled. I feel replaceable, unacceptable, false, plastic. A living breathing mannequin, positioned always by others with no mouth to speak and no ears to listen.
But then, what have I to say?
No comments:
Post a Comment