You want me to stay. You tell me you love me. I tell you I love you. I stay, and I suffer. I leave, and you want me back. You love me. You love me? You love my suffering.
If love does not serve the health of those who participate, then it devolves to sadism. This plays to both ends; the uncareful sufferer, with time and pressure, may become a masochist. It is the responsibility of both the lover and the loved to watch for and repel this horrible dichotomy.
Ariadne’s Prompt: ‘translate’ the style of a visual artist (painting, collage, photography, ceramic, etc) you enjoy into words, and write in that style
Slick and sour were the words which you spoke as you fell to the bottom of the deep black pit. Nothing but darkness, smooth silver darkness, as you rose & patrolled through fog & mist. In remembrance of old times, old books, & old rhymes, we can't help but define the ancient as divine. The world is nothing more than a singular line; drawn, stretched, & broken into frequencies, forming shape, color, & smell. What is more beautiful than mastery of the elementary? I'll wait for your answer as you roam.
This is my attempt to join, and spuriously contribute to, a writing group. I read a lot. I can reasonably write based on the merit of much of that training.
