Love is a gift from God that can be used for good or evil love is a sacred idea that shoul never be used to do harm to others people today have messed the idea of love so bad that the word love is not even a word anymore passion and love aree two different things i don't know what say that's write passion is an extreme form of loive pasion is not at all evil if used to express it toward those who care the most to you like a boy freirnd of girl froiend husband or wife passion for goals os great but passion for power and evil things is no right at all those who have passion for evil things will not have many friends or family so rethoink your passions an your definition of love for your4 sake
The closer you are to freedom the more tentacles encroach into your scenes. The closer you are to touching that tit of mercy the more angst-cream seeps into your machine. I was born of a naive woman and a small-minded man, in the middle of nowhere, at the end of a bitter winter. I was the bringer of fear, a stumbling block with blonde hair. When I fell over I would laugh. When I was left alone I would draw. I was the introspective one. The task-finder. I run my fingers against the paper. Smudge the lead to buff the pencil marks and mold the gray into shade. The closer you are to escaping your origin the dizzier you become. You walk into walls and lean against the sinks. The tables and ottomans seem to swing around you and you try, in vain, to keep them in place. You try to smudge the gray into shade.
He was holding his breath for as long as he could, just to impress his peers at the cocktail bar. He was red in the face. He was damaging his brain. He was acting like he was having more fun than he really was. Then she walked in. She was the prophetic painter. She splashed some paint on a canvas and moved it around and said, “This speaks to someone, I don’t know who.” She threw salt on the outskirts of her creation to create a texture. “This is striking someone. I don’t know who. It is striking someone and they don’t know why.” She turned the canvas to the side, painted something that looked like a rotating eye. She said, “I don’t know who, but someone here wants to confess how they are really feeling. Someone here wants to share, but they can’t find the words.” She took her fist and strategically smudged the paint in certain places. “This speaks to someone,” she said.
Staring up at space, the ground beneath me seems to loosen and even disappear. The stars become the floor and i feel myself falling. I become lightheaded and can't wait to get back inside and take a breath. I don't know why it scares me like that, it seems like realizing how small I am and how big the universe is simply unsettles me. I used to think I could probably go to space if space travel ever became safe enough, but now I can't look up at the sky without feeling like i'm going to pass out. This doesn't happen in the day time. When I see a plane go by I always marvel at it. I think about how big it is and how amazing it is that something that large could fly. 'Someone had to build that' I always think. 'Every nut and bolt, every seat, every window, the wheels, the wings, every little part. Then they had to paint it. How did they know it was correct? You could never judge your work from that close to the plane. It must be automated. And someone had to build that machine too. And the factory. And every car that brought every employ there. And now there are thousands of these above and below. And everyday as if routine, someone gets in that plane, starts the engines by remote, calls over the radio to gain clearance, rolls down a length of tar or concrete so great that you can't even see the end, and finally fly. This behemoth of metal, rubber, glass, and god knows what else lifts off the ground carrying as much as it can fit and flies to another continent just as it was designed to do'. The sight of a plane amazes me despite everyone else, but the sight of anything beyond is just shy of vertigo.
When I stumbled through the resistance field I was looking for a place to sleep. I was holding my wounds together with my jacket. I was walking with a limp. When I slept I dreamt of tapioca pudding and chardonnay on a picnic table on a breezy hill. And you were there with your perspective on everything. You were adjusting your position. You were wearing your perfume. When I woke up I was in a prison cell, my wounds were mended with gauze and ointment-goo. (There was no site of you). There were guards in the prison-ways. There were light beams in the alleyway. I was in a prison cell with no cheese or chardonnay. I grabbed my jacket and dashed straight towards the resistance field. And with sparks and jolts I stumbled through.