Control
Control. It wastes not like the lust that chases tides, then tries to take solace in dryness. But it is lost. Control believes in itself, despite stacks of books with the irrefutable weight of a million combined pages. It is fundamentalism. Control, draws on its own skin. It is an artist that neither acknowledges the canvas, nor the fingers he uses to paint. It is ignorant. Control: A safe delusion and distraction in the ocean of death and birth where we are given and taken. Control: A grasping at status beyond man. Control: A rejection of intuitive breathing, and a swallowing of cloud that would have one day dispersed in the revealing of beautiful truth, but Control: Impatience. Written at the beginning of October 2012.