Timothy

dorian grey has nothing on macbeth

I have to know in my life the vile of vilest and have seen
inevitable
despair cling to people as the ocean clings to cliffs.
People who have
killed, who have been alcoholics, who have prostituted
themselves to
sex & bondage for gains. Once, I knew a drug addict so far
removed
from all of her senses save sensation less touch, a needle
from which she
knew that she was still alive. And still yet, there was
another who slowly
saw his life to a closure as blood emptied from a wound abdomen
puncture, souvenir from a meaningless fight.

I have never in any way came even to the hint of removing my
respect
from who they were and what they did, for whatever the reasons.
Tonight, in Old Town, the streets were crowded with hungry
and sickly
fallen people but people nonetheless. There was a family
selling misletoe
to meet ends meet. A humble humility came over me and I
wondered
about what mattered most to these people: living.

For the first two times in my living, I have lost all
respect for a particular
kind of "people", a praise in misnomer of a better taxomy.
Integrity and
dignity can often come out to be arrogance, a brittle shard in
everydayness. But that is not it, that is not what I meant
at all. A lack
thereof deserves real-ly no pity. Those who cheat themselves
and cheat
those they love seem common herd, unwilling to make a stand.
Many
have continuously committed themselves to affairs with
others. The
worse save themselves to dissolve the personal, their being.
They are an
opinion of themselves, an imitation of a lie mortified to
find itself an
apparition.

Less I be likewise nihilistic, there must be something worth
all the wail
and weary within waited walls? It was there, a peach of
respect and care.
A substantive love for a valued friend. Maybe it is dead,
like chivalry, to
will yourself to do anything and everything for a friend, a
way that grew
me up in the days of elementary school when honor was bond
and self-
honesty language. Seems bullshit, like they, like someone -
the doppler
of an echo that lost its gift of shout.

Time for the afternoon and time for the evening to sleep it
all away, time
to murder and create, till human voices wake us....

... and we drown.