“the most beautiful words were those which were not needed”
All these words, sentences, paragraphs, and chapters
They make me question all virtue,
All value. What is it really?
What is it that makes a man great, rather than good?
What is it that marks the difference between the villain and the hero?
So often, I cannot tell.
Because reality isn’t like the comic books,
and often times the villain is who you’d least expect.
Sometimes the villain is you.
Sometimes you’re the last one who knew
Because the world for me isn’t the world for you
And we each have our own world as it is found by us
As we squint through layers of stained glass to see what’s “real”
What’s real? What’s more real than the taste of the lemon
Than the pressure of my ass in my chair,
Than the sensation of my lips when they brush skin
The skin of an orange or the skin of a peach
And how it feels different to me than it would to a flea
How I’m staring at you
And you stare back at me,
Are we separate, or does our skin really draw our boundaries?
Why is man so overcome by the need
To do what is right?
What is right?
Maybe the ones who are right are the ones who don’t care,
The ones who know that the self is all that’s there
Ultimately, all we can do is shake our heads
And offer our hearts
To whatever it is that speaks to our truest selves
Whether it’s the same or it’s different
Or it’s physical or it’s abstract
Maybe we’re really built out of principle,
Ideals and such.
One idea, one thing which transcends the world and our place in it,
One thing,
The abandonment of which would mean the loss of all integrity.
What binds us, what gives us form,
The foundation upon which the whole edifice rests.
It’s a question no man can ask of another,
But a question always man must ask himself
And he who knows not the meaning is lost, his life meaningless,
A chaotic disarray of mismatched parts
Whose in-congruent pieces crumble together.
But the man who knows the answer, finds himself having never asked.
Like asking himself his own name, it never came up.
And there never was doubt because he’d rather die than betray himself.
He is the hero, the ideal man who everyone hates
Yes, they hate him because he sees past their sneering faces,
When they enter the room he does not flinch, nor change his composure
He is alone in a crowd, he is complete by himself
And no one can stand a bastard like that.
Because we’re all just jumbles of other opinions,
The bits we hold on to of endless conversations
And really, we ask ourselves, what’s so wrong with trying to please?
What’s so wrong about trying to make others comfortable?
I am selfless indeed! I am humble and meek, down on my knees.
The Bible declares that the weak shall inherit the earth,
So what now motherfuckers!?
I mean, excuse me, so what do you think of it?
What do you think of me?
I don’t think of you.
Scowls versus sighs,
How few of us achieve our real potential
Before the spark in our soul slowly dies.