What is at stake is the inching towards perfection. What is at stake is the creation of a magnificent representation, of feeling, far superior than it's original. Worthy of enamouring the weaver.
Ah no, what was never at stake was its worthiness amidst the beholder. It never was. It was not about meaning, or moving, or affirmation.
What was always at stake was the creator, not the beholder.
***
What is at stake, is the seizing of each moment of seizable discrete time, living it to the vibrant fullest. What is at stake is the feeling of life, at each of those units time. The beating of the heart; the fluttering of eyelids; the dilations of irises.
Whether that be through unravelling the mysteries when plagued by curiosity. Or be endeared in nature's embrace, or in loving, and being loved; or in creating a Galatea, and falling in love, and living a life of adoration and admiration and servility; or staking one's stake in with the commonwealth's, for love, or to set oneself right.
What is never at stake, is going through the constructions of society, and fighting to see meaning and beauty in the motions. Nay, unless it is in those motions that one finds completion.
***
What is at stake is always ahead, is always from within, until there is nothing more to stake. That is the moment of completion. The moment of finitude. The moment we grace the end with satisfaction at having staked, and won, and at having left nothing behind. May we all be blessed with finitude.
[big acknowledgement to Kana, for reading, liking, owning, and changing this. but i'll keep the structure, K; it is more dense that what I would like for poetry]
Ah no, what was never at stake was its worthiness amidst the beholder. It never was. It was not about meaning, or moving, or affirmation.
What was always at stake was the creator, not the beholder.
***
What is at stake, is the seizing of each moment of seizable discrete time, living it to the vibrant fullest. What is at stake is the feeling of life, at each of those units time. The beating of the heart; the fluttering of eyelids; the dilations of irises.
Whether that be through unravelling the mysteries when plagued by curiosity. Or be endeared in nature's embrace, or in loving, and being loved; or in creating a Galatea, and falling in love, and living a life of adoration and admiration and servility; or staking one's stake in with the commonwealth's, for love, or to set oneself right.
What is never at stake, is going through the constructions of society, and fighting to see meaning and beauty in the motions. Nay, unless it is in those motions that one finds completion.
***
What is at stake is always ahead, is always from within, until there is nothing more to stake. That is the moment of completion. The moment of finitude. The moment we grace the end with satisfaction at having staked, and won, and at having left nothing behind. May we all be blessed with finitude.
[big acknowledgement to Kana, for reading, liking, owning, and changing this. but i'll keep the structure, K; it is more dense that what I would like for poetry]
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