That white kettle pretending to be black
I want to stop. See people again. For who they are, what they are. Not as blurs racing past, nor as mere mile markers in a Disneyfied journey.
I want to see the defiance in their eyes. That look of utter rage, as eloquent as classical poetry, as timeless as inherent anarchy.
I want to hear their songs. Songs of lament, songs of joy. Songs meant to move the immovable, touch the untouchable, conquer the unconquerable.
I want to taste the blood flowing in their veins. A rushing fount of diseased wellness, neither merciful in its hate nor forgiving in its love.
I want to feel. Feel them. Feel their defiance, their songs, their raging blood. When all else is nothing but an empty canvass rejoicing in its emptiness, I want to feel their humanity, furious passions bursting forth from the cage of fear and the bars of apathy. I want to bathe in their emotions, soak myself in the intense storms of their being, letting it all penetrate the pores of my skin until I am left shuddering in forbidden ecstasy.
But alas, I cannot.
The dictates of life as I know it stops me from stopping. I must yield to certainties, even as I dwell in uncertainties. Let this be a lesson. A lesson in thinking too much yet feeling too little.
Good night, delightful sin.