Wednesday, April 29, 2009

The Persuit of Love

I don’t think pursuing love, although it is usually blatantly unrequited, qualifies as masochism. Yes, at times it hurts as though someone just slammed their foot into your chest, and you’re still expected to breathe like nothing happened. Yes, sometimes the pain creeps up slowly, until one morning you wake up and realize you’re paralyzed with inexorable fear of putting yourself out in the world.

But the lottery-like success: the success of finding love is like a million euphoric moments squeezed into a time/space vortex, where nothing else matters, and nothing else ever will. The usual fatalist end-of-the-world notions are sucked into a black hole, not to be seen within this moment in time. The lover’s words, the long kisses, the assurance of self-affirmation…

It’s bliss. Pure, unadulterated, undeniable bliss.

So what I don’t understand is why everyone goes through the concepts of love like class registration.

Oh, I’ll try this one just to see if I like it.
Eh, this one seems nice and I could use the units, so, why not.
I’ll probably drop this one after three weeks, but that’s not my problem.

I hate serial dating. And I’m so sick of people who commit within a week, and change their mind in a month. No more hook-ups, no more short-term fixes, no more indecisive absurdity.

People need to pursue love again. They need to quit their addiction to instant gratification, and rekindle the days of chivalry and commitment. They need to get their heads out of media’s choice-laden society, and stay on the honest and noble path.

Because love never had to hurt so much, and so often.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

Electric City

The man’s lyin’ there,
The chances of lightning strikin’ him twice
Rare these things just go an’decide to happen.
He thinks,
Well, bullocks. I should just lay here.
I’ve been struck by lightning.
If I could stay here long enough,
The earth, the saprotrophs, should finish the job.

But the dirt didn’t consume him like it should’ve.
The micro things crawled, but he didn’t decompose.
Death lost its wonder, its novelty;
Grotesque monotony was the only thing that did.

So he gets up. He gets up,
And he runs his hands over the charcoaled skin,
Rubbing off the dry ground and burnt remains.
Oh, oh,
The pain, he thinks, this pumpin’, writhin’ pain
Is gonna linger a while.

He ain’t no hero, this man.
He sought a six foot hole before the
Sunrise. This man was the man who searched
For God in a monastery
The man who went a runnin’ cause it was good for him.
He’s just now a realizin’, that there’s no other
Choice than to keep on movin’.