By Logan “The Dramatic” Rand
We dare not cross it, publicly.
We mustn’t advertise the definitions of such a boundary, allowing the fog to create ambiguous interpretations for society to boast its brilliance upon. For it is this discontinuity which taunts us ever closer, inching our way like a worm, forward progress nearing, yet, so suitably, always parallel to, nonexistence. Yet the snapshots we see erect such visions of danger through proximity, ever growing.
It is at the crossroads of these moments and the elongation of time that
Our Hearts mitigate,
muddling through the mess that is our conscience, so personal, while simultaneously so public, perpetually susceptible to the onslaught of forces constantly drowning out our cries for individuality.
Our games synonymous with those past having crossed, our view so unobstructed.
Many of the past travel a short distance, even so, the journey to return forever an Everest. Our hesitation a symptom of temptation, the blows of the glares constantly beating us towards so bloody a state, or perhaps, simply, a Crosser.
for the brilliance of love, an enigma seemingly incomprehensible by those so young at heart, body, or soul.
Not to say that an immaturity in any of these capacities renders one incapable of the tangible and spiritual actions required to be a reciprocal of such a beautiful convention, but rather it is strength in these aspects of a being which create a resilient structure on which to build love with the fashion and detail it so deserves.
The yellow pain[t], perhaps still wet, clearly visible, exclusively through our own eyes. This, despite the convolutions of the masses. We pause, as a deer so captive on the yellow line, awaiting the inevitable. It is now that we find, our own actions, so innocent in origin, so naïve in intention. We reveal the promiscuity of our measures, the very heart of our being. It is plain that such previous action causes such a slippery reaction, until such point as we find that our affairs regrettably existed insurmountably distant from