Sliding down threads of propaganda we all got installed, destitute to defend. Among them: Affection.
When you consider your personality to be on-and-off switches, do you think you could locate each surreptitious flick?
What moment switched away any fondness, or perceptions of fragility which chugs along? A heart sung by ruffled hair, what lumberjacks bring, a village bracing for winter determinedly! Flowers bundled upon a kitchen window sill, and a floating leaf exploring. Stirred stew and cherry wood flushed for a rocking chair; can you feel the fire, or was that switched off too?
How many wires disconnected?
It’s rather easy to grant our moods and movements as part of ourselves, despite its original derivative: a circumstance we had little input in; or rather, we’re just a bunch of bumper-cars propelled by forces unimagined. And the stadium dims until ceiling electric flits for the only light left. No one looking above though. And when one finally does exit, does hang their coat, does fall on the couch, so comes all the justifications and impish schemes. Not a word about loss! Did anyone notice the swindle?
To lose Affection, its expression.
To remind myself of its circuitry I imagine everyone around me as a child in a grown body, and it certainly helps.
The borders between affection and imposition is amusing, too, and probably why I’ve disabled it, or been taught to. Leave enough around you to their own devices and surely a trap snatches them up. To miss someone even when they’re around. Were you supposed to protect them and seal them in an Eternal moment? Now we have stained greetings, hidden addictions, stories left unsaid.
The blotches add to the appeal though, another obstacle to peel back the styrofoam which insulates Affection. Loss of innocence as a challenge rather than a mourning.
Tough love, tough love – is it affection?
That’s the first way you learn to love, it seems. Any other sort of affection was switched off awhile back. And it’s ironic. Because the propaganda has you believe its a dead-end, when in fact it’s the forked road.
Which path will you take? Most are ushered toward the cerulean heights – mountains looming, cracking light and typical lordly sceneries, ravines waiting, money crazy. Rarely may one wander along the other. For there along lay traps hidden, handlers whisper sin: (there is nothing down here ever besides disappointment and pain again).
Affection, affection – coldhearted as it is all is, I’ll still find you.
A silent exploration, stone-faced as ever; let not it deter you, lest one wants arteries severed.