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I probably shouldn't stay up this late, cuz this happens.
15 years ago
And we put on these shells to make ourselves alive.
We pour into them what we want, like a glass, they are stemware for our spirits, distilled and matured, to caper and cavort, to gently menace our inner child. Monsters holding their hands high, and growling with barely suppressed mirth. The promise of the beast popping out from around the corner, frightening in all the safest ways we can imagine, claws blunted, roars muffled inside, the momentary thrill of shock fades into the blissful wonder of spectacle. Lingering like the cordite smoke of a firecracker, wafted to our young noses on a summer's eve.
And shocking it is to see, how something not much bigger than you normally stand, can hold all of this inside itself. More layers should in fact restrict the motion, and in doing so, mute the feeling, the expression. But it doesn't.
Perhaps we do not add something then, but rather take something else away? Perhaps inside, we are still ourselves, minus that which do not desire? Do we control them? are they us? The imaginary friend subsuming our daily routine. Can you truly call it escape if you never actually left?
These things, so empty, grasp hold of our minds, and our hearts.
They hold out to us soft hands, false fangs, and fixed grins.
Perhaps the joy they foretell with unflinching smiles is not something produced when one becomes the other, but has existed separately
needing the unfading wry countenance, to remind us of what we truly feel inside.
And we put on these shells to make ourselves alive.
We pour into them what we want, like a glass, they are stemware for our spirits, distilled and matured, to caper and cavort, to gently menace our inner child. Monsters holding their hands high, and growling with barely suppressed mirth. The promise of the beast popping out from around the corner, frightening in all the safest ways we can imagine, claws blunted, roars muffled inside, the momentary thrill of shock fades into the blissful wonder of spectacle. Lingering like the cordite smoke of a firecracker, wafted to our young noses on a summer's eve.
And shocking it is to see, how something not much bigger than you normally stand, can hold all of this inside itself. More layers should in fact restrict the motion, and in doing so, mute the feeling, the expression. But it doesn't.
Perhaps we do not add something then, but rather take something else away? Perhaps inside, we are still ourselves, minus that which do not desire? Do we control them? are they us? The imaginary friend subsuming our daily routine. Can you truly call it escape if you never actually left?
These things, so empty, grasp hold of our minds, and our hearts.
They hold out to us soft hands, false fangs, and fixed grins.
Perhaps the joy they foretell with unflinching smiles is not something produced when one becomes the other, but has existed separately
needing the unfading wry countenance, to remind us of what we truly feel inside.
And we put on these shells to make ourselves alive.
What