And all our yesterdays

We are so temporary, you and I.  Our fate determined at birth.  We feel so compelled to live our days as dreams, and dream our adventures in sleep.

Life's but a walking shadow

A fleeting moment.  A whisper on a slight breeze that passes in an instant.  We were born in stars, and will in a blink be dust.  All the things we meant to do.  All the things we've never done.  We are at some point nothing more than someone elses memory.  We craft the image of how we'd like to be remembered, but we hide the things worth holding.

I loved you, refracted. 

I tasted what you were.

I want to taste your am.

A poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more.

How many people did you touch today?  How many minutes of your hour passed in a wish of something different.

Something other.

Something else.

I hear your song, but I don't know your words.  My god, I want your words.  I want your joy.  I want your others and elses.

Giftwrapped in light and silhouette.

It is a tale told by an idiot

It is indeed.  Our leaders, and teachers, and priests, and presidents, and politicians all holding our best interests.  All showing the way to a better...

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow...

And do we really want to join in that dance?  

Full of Sound and Fury

and bluster and noise.  And I smile because I know the truth.  I hope you do too.

Signifying nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

We are going to not be here anymore.

That's going to happen.

Do you know that?

Do you?

Do you get it?

We only have right now.  We are better than they have made us.  We are better than we have allowed ourselves to become.

There is a real possibility for nobility. For something grand.  

They rape our time, 

and justify it with wage

not commensurate for living.

So live without wage.

Live without rage.

Live without guilt, or regret.

We are shackled only by our willingness to believe.  To pretend. 

We are set free in each other.

or

At least we can be.

There is a rage of love, burning iniside us just waiting for the opportunity to burst free. 

Your dance is not so disimilar to my own.

That brief candle will go out, out. And the darkness is all that will be left.  This shadow life for me, and for you will stretch with our own revolution.

We can be the infection

and the disease

and the cure together.

Our conversation does not have to end.  Our nights don't have to be so cold. Our days so grey.  The color is in the refraction of the light...not the light itself.

You don't understand yet do you.  The end isn't the point.  Everything ends.  Who cares.  Are you going to stop, before you start, simply because you don't like the final sentence?  Is fear of pain, going to prevent all the things that lead up to the pain?  Why?  That's where the good stuff is.

There is meaning in everything.

Nothing means anything.

Except I love you.

That's all things.

There is not a single part of you, 

That doesn't captivate every part of me.

I want your sin, and your salvation.

I want your petty gods to fight my own.

And our demons dance in bedsheets.

I want your best bad day. 

Your shadow life.

Your brief candle.

I want

I want

I want

Our story to be written.