Black hole

It's not the place, here, to talk about organised abstractions. This space, the will for a poetic space, is something pre-philosophical. Like an abyss full of disorganised reflections, because outside the "social being", they connect and explain each other and expand on each other's subject freely. The beauty may be even that it is so contradictory to use the very best way in which men distinguish themselves from chaos and animalistic behaviour (language)  to explore that which we abhor, ourselves. 

There are many of us, however. We do not hate our "social being", that tailored Frankenstein's monster made of what we think people want and our constant compromise in abiding by some bizarre rules we don't really get. We don't seem to have enough time to hate the us that sends boring emails with receipts and invoices. 

The one we hate is the nearly nonsensical flashing of images, feelings of vulnerability and strength, the way some days have a vibrance about them and others are dull. We hate it because none of that fits in schedule, in common sense, or language. Not usual language, anyways. 

Was your most memorable day a Tuesday?

Love is contentious because we can't gauge which facet of our identity is in control of the word. Do we love the people we say we do because it fits the narrative, suits a Tuesday, suits the dialogue or do we say it because there's some turmoil within, some unusual movement in our, now giggly, dark depths?

It seems necessary, anyways, to empower the creativity in us to express that which language cannot, even if its through language, or we'll pass by each other's lives never letting anyone see what's past convention. Never allowing ourselves to communicate what doesn't fit in an organised world also prevents us from hearing that people around us maybe do love us, not the love we write on a post it and stick to the fridge, but the love of someone who glimpses into our dark matter and still embraces it.