Where has it gone?
That look into their eyes and the delusional thoughts of destiny and fate.
Have we all just forgotten now?
The verses and the stories that we instinctively wrote for each other.
Maybe none of them was real, but I thought that’s what made love so worth chasing.
That delusion, that irrationality and all that “I can’t live without you” that you let no one else in this world give you.
We fetishise independence and rationality.
We think to care is to lose, we think that scarcity of attention is the sign of worth.
We let the reasons come before our feelings, thinking that it’s the more proper form of living.
When someone’s intensity gets to us and we can’t level with that, we say it’s their problem.
We fuck ourselves up on Eric Fromm’s To Be or To Have.
We recite Bell Hook again and again as if there’s nothing to be found within ourselves.
But why is it that we have to again learn the language that we have already mastered so long ago and used to produce the greatest works?
It is not the attempt to grasp love that gives it the meaning, love is a state of living. But the reason it is so distinguishable from any other thing is the magnitude of irrationality and the lack of logics.
We are all pathetic, scared of feelings, scared of being seen, blindly chasing the aesthetics of being on top of the power games.
We were given the pen to write and the brush to paint but we deliberately threw them away.
Fuck you, fuck me and fuck us all for doing that.
Rebel 