“We came crying hither; Thou knows’t, the first time that we smell the air, we wail and cry.” – King Lear
They say one can no longer write a proper tragedy. Perhaps not on paper, but it is only human nature to be blinded; misguided by self-absorption – each mind-fucking experience requiring a brain-cell abortion. The damage is only visible on those who are easily marred – each scar a memoir. Kissing harder, loving stronger. Try all you want – it won’t make it last any longer. Some people suffer in pairs; some go it alone. It’s easier breaking a heart to save your own. Every fall makes it harder to heal; nothing left to hurt, nothing more to feel. Awake – with a sleeping soul. That’s what keeps the tragedy whole – one crushed spirit, one throbbing sole. Kiss me harder, make it hurt. Keep me dirty, I am dirt.