30 minutes ago
In a temporal world, everything is temporary. I racked my brain for anything that held permanence, I found nothing. I used to have Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116 memorized, I believed that love is not love that bends with the remover to remove, love an ever-fixed mark that stands on the precipice of doom...
I’m sorry to be the one to tell you it’s just a sonnet. Words written by a foolish man who died on his own birthday. Technology has robbed us of contentment, we stare blankly in to the blue light imagining a different life, meanwhile the one we have dwindles past its saving point. We hold lovers in one hand while holding a flash light in the other to keep our options open.
What a sentiment, to look upon this tempest never shaken, worth unknown, it’s just a poem.
We toss out things we hold dear, forgetting the reason we held them in the first place. Humans have always aged, yet we are so amiable throwing them away once they have wrinkled only a small bit.
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks
—yet you can’t stand patiently in line waiting for your fodder to be made for you, much less make your own provision.
But bears it out even to the edge of doom
—you run like cattle from a prod enduring nothing that could take longer than the standard buffering time.
Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds and everything is temporary.
📷 @cludmarie at Atlanta, Georgia