WE ARE ROSES AT DAWN

The world cracks between needs and wants, between absorption and indifference. We are the wheel in progress, the magic of engines yet unknown. We are the staggering in mud, we are the dancing on air. Dichotomies are our breath, our reason, our movement towards. Sunshine days may be infrequent, but they glide through us like a laser beam of intensity. Why are we for, who are we doing? What is our journey this day, and when is it due? Strip away our subtle skin and we are roses at dawn, a walking meat counter of muscle, fat, dripping blood. We are organs rising, we are minds descending. We are books with no pages that flutter in the breeze, that sit on the table, unbroken, unbound, leaves in the wind unknown. To take a scalpel and to engineer the first cut, to peel back the character, to murmur of the unspoken needs, wants, desires, always meant to be skin deep, but always really a part of bone and sinew. Laughter and mocking are one and the same, concern and indifference the same, as are compassion and ego. We are who we are, rather than we are who we pretend to be. We are creatures of the mood, believers in the world of self. Our orbits are central, we are the star not the shadow, no matter how fictional it makes us feel. So we dance the dance of men and angels, never taking our eyes off the mirror, never glancing away from the car wreck that is the dichotomy of 'me'.