Words can’t encompass the enormity of humankind. Our beauty or disrepair, nor the beauty of our disrepair.
One concept wears the naunce of 7 billion impressions.
We are hungry to assemble meaning. Classic. Cliché. True and utterly boring.
Twisting them until they are wrung out.
We repeat mantras until they’re numb. We wear them through the tunnel and out the other side. From light to darkness and back into the light of new understanding.
We dodge their nagging persistence.
We smirk at these weary rags, yet reach to possess them.
We forget we are so simple. Mundane. Mediocre. Riding the lift to the third floor of ego. Stepping off into pretense.
Third floor weary is still weary. Hungry to elevate. Chasing and tumbling.
One floor higher. One floor further from stable ground. Fifth floor weary.
Still using the same scrambled sentiments, florid with promise, pleasure.
The door opens to the reflection of our sameness.
The cosmos orbit our sameness.
We rest in our sameness.
We cannot bypass our ground floor investments.