There is blood on my lips but romance in the words; I always mean what I say in the moment. Passing. Past. Words drift when spoken; they exhale into space and disperse, leaving flawed memory behind – imprints. Reliefs. Relief; release of moments that you can never replicate. We each carry our own weight, as moments do; a product of everything preceding. The ones you remember and particularly the ones that you don’t; vague anamnesis; affect difference. All of us. Walking around as these constructs – nobody able to describe their own making in enough detail to be truly understood. Nobody willing to spare moments like change to profoundly discover. I don’t think we were meant to, though – be understood. Or else memory would be perfect; brains built like department store warehouses. We were premeditated for mystery. Mystery inspires life, inspires question and wonder, inspires development, inspires continuation. Humanistic method of survival of the species. With no enigma we revert; animalistic tendency. Indulgence of pleasure centers and lack of aspiration that triggers apathy and demition. But we are not this. We are striving. Imperfect and perfectly so. Ambitious and growing like fetal fingertips that touch; faces, touch brick and build. We are exponential in every way, for what is lost in the interstice will always leave us longing.
– Jaime Dyna La Mondain