The word kept popping up.
Only a few times
but enough to get noticed.
I read it in
a Smiths biography,
it became a little running joke
at work
and a little later
it seeded a thought
in my dense mind.
Since forever
or at least as long
as I can remember
I have been
suspecting
life to be a fraction
of what we are meant to feel.
There is some deeply rooted frustration
that stems from the clash of
the subconscious awareness
that we can experience
let's say
a 100%
and the marginal outlines
of the insubstantial senses
our natural life bestowed on us
and which allows only
a mere 5%
of the whole
to be actually disclosed.
There is a sick kind of restraint
pressing our face down
like a foot on the cheek.
Humiliating
and debasing.
As wonderful
and balanced
and content
your life may be
it feels like there is something missing.
The incompletion of feeling
is firmly lodged in its own genesis.
We can not close a circle
that beyond our reality
is in fact a continuous line.
We are corrupted
by the origins of things.
We aspire a golden dream
and are dealt a handful of mud
to fabricate it.
What I'm trying to say is
that our desires are painted
in living color.
In vivid
bright
textured
layered
and screaming fluorescence.
Teeming with
a throbbing radiation.
Hysterical discharges
of wild and untamable majesty.
Life
is a bland pastel at best.
Everything about it reduces
the ferocity of color
and involvement
that we so deeply seek.
Like it immediately
waters down
and weakens
the inward pigments
of all emotional sacrifice.
That is why everything
always feels unfulfilling.
Draining even.
I wouldn't go as far as to say
that it feels contrary to
what you hoped it might be.
But I see how you would be
inclined to think so.
It is of a similar disappointment.
It appears to be of all expense.
A fatality.
You are a marvel
well beyond the natural realm.
A vision in itself.
Let's hope you find the strength
to acknowledge that in time.
Before we are lost
and all doused in pastel
and all dead.