Desire
Mais c’est la machine en elle qui rêvait de caresses… -Sartre
Wrong words sometimes misheard as the correct ones,
(Correction: there are no correct words, only those more or less sufficient.)
dream disguised as prophecies while all prophets are despised & each day either a sombre parade gliding quietly by, or screaming as it runs into the night.
Were these fiercely defended fantasies created only to be destroyed?
Is that why we still desire them?
How strange it is that the urge to leap when crossing a bridge so rarely corresponds to the balance between despondency & excitement; solidarity & isolation;
love, indifference, ideation.
How obvious
it seems in hindsight that colour depends upon more than light:
if we close or open our eyes; the strength of our sight; what we choose to see, or if
we look away.