mercurial bore

Self expression is a joke. Nobody writes about their genitals. They conceal them like freedoms in swaths of aesthetics, spinning artificial beauties like intoxicated conversations across the gleam of their nudity, following the sentiments of Christian empire and sublimated dialectics. We get tired life; a printing press reproducing the works of reality's printing press. "Today i walked along the shoreline and the luster of purple painted mountains behind awed me with the thought of God's benevolence, that there is beauty in Christ the lord as there is love." We have fashioned nature into our most noble sentiments and replaced our active imaginations with conceptions of God or spirituality. But we have not incorporated nature in its totality. No one would admit to acting goatish, or to having the qualities of a white-fluked squid. Rather we mirror our emotions after sunsets and flowers, we tell ourselves through way of others in conversations that art and science are the human achievements, not politics or warfare. Each of us creates his own propaganda and admires it in genuflection; we forget the arabesque of flows and ebbs, the consequence of the stars upon the eyes, and the meaning of the aphids that spot the rosebush. The truth is that i don't write about genitals either. But this woman does.

Singing Earth Publishing - Gaia Singer