Wayward

I postulate that we do naught but oscillate until we osculate. Or suffocate, I suppose. Whichever happens first. But 'til then, we keep walking the fine line between ins and exes. Our lives and interactions center on one choice: Sex or Sanity - that is, Love or Logic?

And somehow, paradoxically, one cannot exist without the other; not entirely. Without love of something, be it selves, sciences, spouses, souls, then what air has logic to breathe? And in the absence of logic, love knows not even itself.

So, the solution? To live continually in that marvelous moment of sweet-on-tongue ecstasy, in which the cake is more yours than ever it was on plate - at the very instant you eat. A continual existence at these moments is impossible; but to live always in them is feasible.

The shortest distance between two points is a straight line - but life is not that short. We ebb and flow in emulation of that great ocean of Mother-tears and Mother-essence from whence we all came. We feel in sound as much as in silence, for silence, too, is a symbol. We rise and fall, but always with a brief respite at some intangible zero between our peak and our depression, holding momentarily to the everything and nothing of our memories. We stand here, in our grounded limbo, with dreams of our deepest depths, and hopes for our highest heights. In these sacred moments (or, for the wiser being, "In the mindset of these sacred moments,") is communion possible. The only thing left, then, is to seek out those willing and able to enter ethereality with us.

We mustn't forget that every being has the potential to commune with us - indeed, we are all extensions of divinity, living with a common core. We rose from dirt, from our Mother Earth. The makeup of our blood, our sweat, our spittle - it's all the same: Protons, Neutrons, Electrons - infinitely divisible if we but recollected the power. Thus is Hate the most irrational emotion; if there is anything in this world we love, the we can do nothing so logical as to love all. That which we claim to adore is built of the same stuff as what we detest. Hatred is merely a failure to remember this.

Then there are those that we remember more than others - those with whom we share heart-beat and heart-melody. Perhaps it is that a million years ago, one core particle of each of our respective beings dwelt together in one drop of angry animal blood. We remember the wild electricity in breaths of sensual oneirism. It takes no effort to recollect what we were, or might have been.

And so, as it has been for as long as the world can remember, we love to talk and long to touch. Ever will it be until the ultimate day when all transcend all and, uninhibited, we recognize our completion.