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Lost in translation
tangled in delicately spun
nuances of perception,
what one sees,
and what is.
Prejudice thrown in and
varying degrees of awareness.
Ssh, don’t wake the sleeping.
It is their right,
as much as it had been your right
to succumb to your own weaknesses
back when you touted them
as your uniqueness,
to be seduced by trinkets
that reminded you of you,
to leave yourself behind
in blind pursuit of a light
you thought you recognized.
To desire what wasn’t meant for you.
To run away with it,
drag it on the ground,
sparks flying,
the friction between
your will and its resistance
forming calluses on your palms
and scuff marks on your sanity.
Tearing up the road.
The path of consciously chosen errors
visible to observers
both casual and discerning,
so temptingly easy to judge,
so cherished and sacred
in every inch of its incongruity,
so beautiful and alive
in its defiance.
From certain vantage points
it spells your name,
and it must also be that
somewhere in your naked truth
you are tattooed with moments
that recreate a map of that path.
Regret and denial and
sweet rebellion
and drunken glimpses of the height
of everything you are.
Ecstasy as defining as
it is ephemeral.
And with each step you take
closer to the source,
the easier it is to see
the labyrinth you’re negotiating
as but the evocation of
the living, roaring chaos
that beats inside you.
Time is both the beast
and the sword.
You are both the adored
and the hunted, in turns,
running out of thread.

“Marlen” by photographer Martin Kühn


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