#chibunny

Is this Natsuhinanami

i have lost myself these past few months, somewhere in the sky, somewhere in the purple of our human bruises. many phrases come to mind but none stick to the forefront of skull like a good rich creamed sin would.

brilliant souls do terrible things, they break their own thin bones, fill their children's chests with dormant hate gas, and i can't despise them for it, only wonder at it.

the modern world's one for rustling about on the eaves of skyscrapers, and some of us twirl for years and years until we wither, and some of us leap, and those leapers throw up sparks as they fall that streak the air with parables. there is so much art about the brain and the heart and the implications of oil and sand as they leak into people and coat our self-made coatings, and there seems to be no art about the mediocrity of it, of anything.

but isn't mediocrity the bitter part of swirling truth in us, the taste that won't ever leave the tongue? it's the part we neither want to acknowledge nor ignore. and i feel bad for mediocrity. imagine how it feels about itself, avoided into an ash of existence.