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Array
(
[sid] => 155566
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => An Appeal to Meaning
[time] => 2009-12-02 19:17:19
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => I remember our midnight talks of art and war, sparkling as we sipped our wine and posed on silk pillows for invisible admirers. I remember your crinkling smile and the rumble of my own voice, confident in my softened ingenuity, confident in the protection humanity could offer. What is real? We surely had an answer - scores of answers ready to leap from our lips as the ambition to impress easily overtook the ambition for reason. Tonight there is no midnight; no memories can be saved by snapping hasty pictures. Tonight dusk and dawn walk together, and I like to flatter myself and believe that it is me they aim to spite - reality is not real because I will it so. The twilight sky is a wild and artless tapestry which in this moment is more real to me than the cement beneath my feet. I admit my admiration is fleeting and fragile; it must change loyalties often or risk being swept beneath my carefully applied indifference. Yet, I eagerly mock your splendid squalor, your filth that masquerades as a palace - a hollow palace - zinc pretending to taste like a true copper penny. I pretend as well, though my lies are truer than yours - for you think yourself as an ocean, I know myself as a lake. We cannot see the writing on the wall, you and I, only the vision of the bright young artist allows us to feel its presence. Perhaps the writing does not need the approval of others to understand its own beauty. Perhaps if we continue to sip our wine, and snap our pictures, and laugh away our perpetual indecision, it will keep us from faltering for another shapeless day. Perhaps it is enough. [comments] => 3 [counter] => 207 [topic] => 73 [informant] => cetblue [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 10 [ratings] => 2 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => abstract )
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