Why do we talk of things?
The words feel like empty little boats bobbing gleefully on a deep sea of emotion. We are drowning, and too weak to hoist ourselves up upon the barges that could save our lives. The boats know not the existing monsters of the deep.
We look up from underneath, the blanket of sunlit waves that is the roof of our fate. One by one, we watch these black vessels carry nothing to the shore.
And what for are these embraces?
The human touch is but a cage we place around our passions. Like an animal we’ve stolen from the wild, trying to tame it that we may spare ourselves the possible hurt of its supposed flesh-ripping teeth, that we may not be skinless from it’s maybe wrath; it whimpers and growls in our prison, so we may revel in its thrilling, instinctual vigor. We are too afraid to feed the beast, though it may not be a carnivore.
It dies without the wilderness. We pet the corpse with a backwards fondness before burying it in the sand.
And what of this world we live in together?
It looks like a bundle of yesterdays, swept into the corner. The tarnish is mistaken for dust, and repeated attempts to brush it off fall to the confines of failure. Like the strangeness of a photograph, it is always over, and never ending.
The memories are made into mathematics. The moments add up to yield the past. A theory of happiness is deduced and published. We are left out of the equation.