What is it about life?

Why is the idea of survival so appealing? Is it instinct, or is it merely acquired knowledge?

What is it about I?

Why do I crawls everyday back to its bed feeling so miserable for making it through one more day?

Why is I still here?


Because trumpets and voices allow me to stand.

The motor: the taste of your lips in my mind. It’s all about imaginary scents. Because it’s only what appears like fake feelings that keeps my senses on.

It’s really not about feelings, nor rationality; it’s the meaning of what can be felt only by the senses that matters.

I didn’t put a spell on you, because you are not mine, because you don’t look, or feel, or taste, or smell, or sound like mine.

What is it about life? What is it, really, about us?


Texto: ACK / Imagen: Sylvia Plath / Seed*: ‘I put a spell on you’, Screamin’ Jay Hawkins

Los posts que tengan el rubro *seed indicado, es porque están inspirados u originados con base en otra pieza, texto, canción, imagen, momento o espacio. En este caso, la seed fue la canción ‘I put a spell on you’.


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