‘ne Nische ist sie, ‘ne Ecke, zum Zurückziehen und Verlieren...
My Natasha lies in comfort and with a twist remembers the dreadful imminence of everyday living. Overwhelmed by everything, she sinks into nonexistence, having chosen the crushing despair of indecision.
She wonders why an acquaintance would extend the hand of friendship, having forgotten that she too had once desired a community with which to spend her time. She’ll revel in sunny companionship only then to flee to her shelter of cloud cover. She’d like to keep it together, yet wants to be left alone.
She covets her friends’ spouses, a pure desire shared with dire dread; wallowing tentatively in their trust makes up the third leg of a stool otherwise broken along a path of deceit. She is not unaware of a certain safety in already counted numbers, and even obsesses over the wrong path not taken.
When she tries to share in a simple joy, she receives as stale the cliché some find amusing.
She follows the shepherd to the market, excited by the once-loved relics now discarded to be taken in by strangers, and then reminds herself not to be taken in by that which is unnecessary, for nothing is better than something. She allows a breath of cool morning dawn to inspire capturing this expression, which leads to the qualified conviction that something’ll be better than nothing.
She glimpses inspiration and walks into apprehension. The fret is in some way dearer, and without it’d be another fear, for the circle is a cycle, all imagination, part prevarication, searching for the meaning of life without a point. The only thing known for sure is that some things remain consistent: She’ll get hungry and need to eat, thirsty and need to drink, awoken and want to satiate, and intermittently need to defecate and urinate all that she ate and drank.
My Natasha will remember all that is rich in this world of awe-filled beauty, but she can never forget its awful nature. She would like to write an ode to the supremacy of the one. She can’t shake the shadow of the reign of the other. She fights for the right that not all is black and white. She is subjugated to the will of the gray.
My Natasha lies in comfort and with a twist remembers the dreadful imminence of everyday living. Overwhelmed by everything, she sinks into nonexistence, having chosen the crushing despair of indecision.
She wonders why an acquaintance would extend the hand of friendship, having forgotten that she too had once desired a community with which to spend her time. She’ll revel in sunny companionship only then to flee to her shelter of cloud cover. She’d like to keep it together, yet wants to be left alone.
She covets her friends’ spouses, a pure desire shared with dire dread; wallowing tentatively in their trust makes up the third leg of a stool otherwise broken along a path of deceit. She is not unaware of a certain safety in already counted numbers, and even obsesses over the wrong path not taken.
When she tries to share in a simple joy, she receives as stale the cliché some find amusing.
She follows the shepherd to the market, excited by the once-loved relics now discarded to be taken in by strangers, and then reminds herself not to be taken in by that which is unnecessary, for nothing is better than something. She allows a breath of cool morning dawn to inspire capturing this expression, which leads to the qualified conviction that something’ll be better than nothing.
She glimpses inspiration and walks into apprehension. The fret is in some way dearer, and without it’d be another fear, for the circle is a cycle, all imagination, part prevarication, searching for the meaning of life without a point. The only thing known for sure is that some things remain consistent: She’ll get hungry and need to eat, thirsty and need to drink, awoken and want to satiate, and intermittently need to defecate and urinate all that she ate and drank.
My Natasha will remember all that is rich in this world of awe-filled beauty, but she can never forget its awful nature. She would like to write an ode to the supremacy of the one. She can’t shake the shadow of the reign of the other. She fights for the right that not all is black and white. She is subjugated to the will of the gray.
