The Confines Of Flowers
You keep what you have by giving it away. Just fucking help people. That's the point: the reason why you breathe, the reason you live, and the reason for all your misaligned intentions. I've lived my whole life thinking I have no responsibility to anybody else, and now, I'm discovering how wrong I've been. We have an obligation to each other, however unfair it may seem. It's not about what we get out of relationships but rather what we give, even if there's no return on the investment. What can we call ourselves if we watch on and let others steep in their misery? How good am I if I won't try to shore what ails another soul? All I am is a soul, trapped inside this meat sack, indulging my demons, allowing them to rise inside of me, expressing themselves completely. I need a trick to temper so I can carry on through these days. I keep what I have by giving it away. I would give everything, the qualities of myself I cherish and regard in high esteem. I would give everything, take it; it's not mine; it's a stake planted in the ground for others to see and notice. Look inside yourself; you know the contents; there are things you refuse to acknowledge, and maybe that's how you get by. There's no antidote; the things you see but ignore will be there forever, festering, trying their best to overtake you, but you can fight them; you do everything you can to put them in the back seat and drive the car you call your life. They're not going to go away; they'll do everything they can to kill you; you've taken on these curses; they're you, whether you want them or not. Give them away, give it all away; there's no need to repeat what happened; it doesn't need to live inside of you anymore; I'll take it, give it to me; I can harbor your deepest woes, and maybe I can dispatch some of mine in your direction. I would never want to drag you down, but how about you carry mine? How about I carry yours? How about we live this life hoping we'll be okay, one day?
I'm here; I'm not going anywhere. Love demands; it does not care for how you feel or where you are; it grabs you by the throat and forces you to entangle like an appointment you never made. It sits at the center of your chest and engrains itself into your soul; there is no way to remove it. Love sits there; it becomes a part of you before you're aware of it. What's the point of all this depression? Shouldn't we feel that which makes life worth living? Don't we deserve it? I think we do; we keep what we have by giving it away. Trading hurt for hurt, give me yours, and I'll give you mine.
It's in the way the bees interact with Iggy, buzzing around his intrusion. We're meant for each other, even if we have to abide by the confines of flowers.
Art by Ingrida Blinkeviciute
