Capricious

51 - Terracotta Hills

"Beauty is no quality in things themselves: it exists merely in the mind which contemplates them; and each mind perceives a different beauty."
- David Hume

I've become like steel, untouched by every social disturbance around me, problems of the past nothing to me now. I control this, working in different dimensions to express my charm to those who might adore, but to no avail thus far. Instead I waste away in time and mind, doing little of value with my life, losing every way I play. I have not much left, standstills everywhere, I don't know where to go from here. I have problems now that I never believed would befall me, and yet I don't feel their weight, it doesn't hurt my mind as it did before, it just clouds it. What's happening to me?

I mirror the passions of those around me, for whatever roots are laid within my soul.

Weeks pass, my mind unbusy, falling between attractions, and commercial achievement at the least. Not much moves me, paths opening up and closing without regret, a flash of rose, some flame and a steady stream of someone new, winding her way through my mind with words but no sight. I live on as I do, making do with what's around me, present suffering less than my future perhaps, absorbed by the little things and the large that might propel me. I've sated into nonchalance, nought to be, nought to say bar what I already have. The world carries on and I carry my burdens with a lighter weight, dreaming dreams of old and leaving living to sleep, lazing around because I can, because I'll be fine, because I'm good enough, and perfection blurs away.

For when our lives finally taste such pleasure, it is impossible to return and still be satisfied, that is the curse of success, that is the curse of living.

Love is fascination
Love is magnetism
Love is passion

Alas he found his stars dripping through black holes, his soul tainted by a flickering mind, a hungering body. Worlds seeming plainer than they used to, further apart, devoid of the beauty his memories had been manipulated into believing. When really it was only his perception of time that had changed, weighed upon by greed and lust, that before were only shadows of lesser dreams.

Love, that experience that is like no other, that magical mix of feeling, reason for living if there was. Love for a friend, for a lover, for a moment. Despite what others have felt in return, I have loved. No one can take that from me, can belittle me for it, nor am I afraid to admit it. Why do we hide from the love of others instead of accepting it, why do we fear to say the word, a word that encompasses such a wide array of feeling? We let it complicate, we feel guilty for it, we tease others for believing it. Since when did the ability to love make us weak? It takes great strength to love indiscriminately, without any vested interest. Whatever way; whatever gender, whatever vice, whatever passion; whether a love for music or a close friend or an incredibly attractive certain someone; we are who we are, we all love differently, why should we be afraid to, why should we hide it? We have no right to tell someone how they should feel, what they are or are not feeling, make them feel a fool for feeling so. Sometimes love is easy, sometimes it is hard, sometimes it is sudden, and sometimes it takes time. Love can change, it can deepen, it can fade away just as we ourselves change, we just have to accept it. We move on, just to love again. We can't resent when our love is not returned, that's not for us to decide, we may express but we should never impose. Whenever love is compatible, friendships are formed, lovers are intertwined, passions are shared, it's just a chance we have to take. So thank you for letting me love you, even if you didn't feel the same way, think me a fool if you will, resent me if you must, I regret nothing. I believed it, therefore it was real. All we can do is keep on loving, and soon enough we may find that love returned.

The books we read, the things we watch, everything we learn, the standards that are set. Social media, television, pornography, all that thrives on our desire for a life more than our own. They help us to dream of wondrous worlds, but in turn destroy our ignorance, resulting in impossible desires, that are not ours to be lived. The more we know, the more we think we know, the more we believe we are missing. And so we resent our very lives for not being how we might dream them to be, and our minds die because of it. We spend our time depressed, fantasising of a life that doesn't exist quite how we believe it to be, trying to be other people, instead of living our own lives.

It is a mutual flow of humorous sarcasm, playful teasing and delicate flirting, interspersed with outrageous truths. Passionate about our affairs, creatively dreaming, intelligently observing. Our dialogue poetry, testing each other's minds, and finding ourselves in each. We share our passions, our thoughts mixing, encouraging each other's madness on, ever interesting. The friends and lovers I crave the most.

If I think back, my life does seem quite plain, save for rare times of living. Yet my soul seems so alive, excited by things I can't have lived, stories and dreams of my subconscious, stolen from art, music and fictitious worlds. I live for knowing, living only on those I find, not living my own life. For any time I wish to live out my dreams, I cannot find anyone who wishes to live them out with me.

We can only love so much, we only have so much that we can give. True love so intense we can only feel for one person at a time. The love of friendship split between few if one is an introvert, and many if one is an extrovert. A single passion followed mercilessly, or else a number of passions followed less intensely. The truth is our love is only constrained by what is available to us, and as such we shouldn't waste it.