Fairy Tale Lost
In fairy tales the prince wakes the cursed princess with a kiss...
I don't even want to delve into that symbolism further, but that resistance is about as strong as my resistance to you. Maybe it is about as genuine.
I'm not allowed to dream of fairytales, I have to tell myself all the time. But it isn't that hard to remember, because the world has never looked like one. It just looks like one tragedy after another, really. In real life, the princess always dies.
Everything is slow poison. All consumed through senses, all consuming that person who is so thoroughly consumed. To such a glutton, tolerance is merely ignorance to the nature of one's succumbing to the poison that is living.
I didn't want to think about these things. I didn't want to remember those things. I didn't want to view the world in such a way, and you laugh saying, "You mean, as it is?" It seems cruel, but perhaps the shard in my eye is again transforming beautiful things into something ugly. Sometimes I'm afraid that the only feeling I know for sure is fear...
...ah, but there is also loneliness... and to know such feelings with such intensity must mean that I could feel hope and love with as much or more vigor.
And those intensely positive feelings that I get high off of are at times ready to set the pendulum back into the next sensation. What will it be? Well first there is the swing. And from each height there is a valley of trust and betrayal...such is the way which we climb...and such is the way I always fall.
You are whispering this future to me. But are these whispers heralding my fate or my folly? Will I betray or be so? Can you feel betrayed by betraying, maybe if you betray yourself?
It can also be said that their will be even more fear. As that gracious love, too, can be warped into a vehement noxious anxiety. And I crave that some gentle touch will be enough to wake me from that intoxication.
And, oh, my old friend again... as I question everyone I ever knew and distrust everyone I will ever know, even your behest, how could I not return to the ever ensnaring arms of loneliness?
You see, I too feel pain. To both of our great disappointment, I am but a mortal. Nothing but a poor weak human... flesh...
...and yet by mental transmutation can such lead shimmer too brightly to be beheld. And at the end of such a journey I hope it is your voice that I hear first gasp, "could this be... gold?"
I really can't help but dream... but I can at least acknowledge that the best protagonists don't want to be. Perhaps this too will be part of some subplot's subplot in the narration of time and space. Being such a short and insignificant line, who is to say that we even care how that story ends?
I don't even want to delve into that symbolism further, but that resistance is about as strong as my resistance to you. Maybe it is about as genuine.
I'm not allowed to dream of fairytales, I have to tell myself all the time. But it isn't that hard to remember, because the world has never looked like one. It just looks like one tragedy after another, really. In real life, the princess always dies.
Everything is slow poison. All consumed through senses, all consuming that person who is so thoroughly consumed. To such a glutton, tolerance is merely ignorance to the nature of one's succumbing to the poison that is living.
I didn't want to think about these things. I didn't want to remember those things. I didn't want to view the world in such a way, and you laugh saying, "You mean, as it is?" It seems cruel, but perhaps the shard in my eye is again transforming beautiful things into something ugly. Sometimes I'm afraid that the only feeling I know for sure is fear...
...ah, but there is also loneliness... and to know such feelings with such intensity must mean that I could feel hope and love with as much or more vigor.
And those intensely positive feelings that I get high off of are at times ready to set the pendulum back into the next sensation. What will it be? Well first there is the swing. And from each height there is a valley of trust and betrayal...such is the way which we climb...and such is the way I always fall.
You are whispering this future to me. But are these whispers heralding my fate or my folly? Will I betray or be so? Can you feel betrayed by betraying, maybe if you betray yourself?
It can also be said that their will be even more fear. As that gracious love, too, can be warped into a vehement noxious anxiety. And I crave that some gentle touch will be enough to wake me from that intoxication.
And, oh, my old friend again... as I question everyone I ever knew and distrust everyone I will ever know, even your behest, how could I not return to the ever ensnaring arms of loneliness?
You see, I too feel pain. To both of our great disappointment, I am but a mortal. Nothing but a poor weak human... flesh...
...and yet by mental transmutation can such lead shimmer too brightly to be beheld. And at the end of such a journey I hope it is your voice that I hear first gasp, "could this be... gold?"
I really can't help but dream... but I can at least acknowledge that the best protagonists don't want to be. Perhaps this too will be part of some subplot's subplot in the narration of time and space. Being such a short and insignificant line, who is to say that we even care how that story ends?
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