gauchecritic
When there are grey skies
- Joined
- Jul 25, 2002
- Posts
- 7,076
No.
There's no tragedy in death. There's only tragedy in life. Else why is our every waking moment consumed with a headlong rush towards it.
Just how long does happiness last but for little more than an instant? The lingering smile of the effects of happiness are wistful. A longing for that happiness that's just passed. Just that very moment slipped away and has become already, too soon, a memory of happiness.
This is where tragedy lies. Waiting. Biding it's time. Watching the pleasure and happiness develop because as surely as night follows the sun, so tragedy, the memory of happiness follows joy.
And where do we most experience joy? In sex. In orgasm. In fleeting seconds a happiness brushes our selves. And for ever after we search it out knowing the consequence, the after effect, the small death. Le Petite Mort.
Where then lies tragedy? Not in the still body, but in the quick. The tragedy is that we remain. Unaccompanied. Without the other.
Because without is all we are and all we can be. Separate. Distinct. Singular. But the passion. Oh the passion of that moment. Of those many small moments.
To be so honoured and victimised by that desertion. Whether it's the child in your arms, slipping from here to there, or that mirrored shuddering that takes all reason and makes of us a searching, howling hunger. Where then is happiness except as introduction to tragedy.
There's no tragedy in death. There's only tragedy in life. Else why is our every waking moment consumed with a headlong rush towards it.
Just how long does happiness last but for little more than an instant? The lingering smile of the effects of happiness are wistful. A longing for that happiness that's just passed. Just that very moment slipped away and has become already, too soon, a memory of happiness.
This is where tragedy lies. Waiting. Biding it's time. Watching the pleasure and happiness develop because as surely as night follows the sun, so tragedy, the memory of happiness follows joy.
And where do we most experience joy? In sex. In orgasm. In fleeting seconds a happiness brushes our selves. And for ever after we search it out knowing the consequence, the after effect, the small death. Le Petite Mort.
Where then lies tragedy? Not in the still body, but in the quick. The tragedy is that we remain. Unaccompanied. Without the other.
Because without is all we are and all we can be. Separate. Distinct. Singular. But the passion. Oh the passion of that moment. Of those many small moments.
To be so honoured and victimised by that desertion. Whether it's the child in your arms, slipping from here to there, or that mirrored shuddering that takes all reason and makes of us a searching, howling hunger. Where then is happiness except as introduction to tragedy.
