ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
I could talk about happiness. I could talk about serotonin and dopamine and how the wrong quantities make happiness seem more distant than the furthest star. I could talk about the kind of things that make people happy, and about seasonal affective disorder. I could talk about the release of endorphins and why smiles are considered beautiful. I could talk about the happiness brought to you by drugs, and about the drugs which prevent you from not being able to see happiness even with a telescope. I could talk about what causes happiness, chemically speaking.
I could talk about all of these things. I have the vocabulary, and the requisite knowledge. But that would be just dancing around the subject. All of this is cerebral, and entirely divorced from the actual emotion of happiness.
To actually try to explain what happiness feels like, rather than to merely talk about it, would be like trying to describe the intrinsic glory of the universe with the vocabulary of a toddler. There are words that people have coined that try - happy, content, joyful, ecstatic - but these dismally fail to create a sense of the actually feeling itself. They are just words, empty, hollow shades of the emotion that they try to pin down.
So I cannot talk about the fragile, bittersweet laughter of someone who doesn't have long to live. Or the simple, complete joy of a mother watching her child take its first steps. Or the childlike wonder of the infant itself. Because my vocabulary is insufficient, and the words just aren't there.
I could talk about all of these things. I have the vocabulary, and the requisite knowledge. But that would be just dancing around the subject. All of this is cerebral, and entirely divorced from the actual emotion of happiness.
To actually try to explain what happiness feels like, rather than to merely talk about it, would be like trying to describe the intrinsic glory of the universe with the vocabulary of a toddler. There are words that people have coined that try - happy, content, joyful, ecstatic - but these dismally fail to create a sense of the actually feeling itself. They are just words, empty, hollow shades of the emotion that they try to pin down.
So I cannot talk about the fragile, bittersweet laughter of someone who doesn't have long to live. Or the simple, complete joy of a mother watching her child take its first steps. Or the childlike wonder of the infant itself. Because my vocabulary is insufficient, and the words just aren't there.
Literature
Blue Eyes in Flames
When the prince sees the flower bloom from the palm of her hand, he orders her arrest.
She is only seven years old.
He takes the flower from her and keeps it, even though he knows he shouldn't. He puts it a vase, or, rather, his servant does that for him. The flower doesn't ever die, even years later.
It's dawn of a December morning, and he's cold. But still, he stands next to his father dutifully and looks at the little girl with blue eyes that are now black from seven nights sleeping on a cold, dungeon floor behind bars. They cut off her dark brown hair during that time. She's tied to the pyre, and there are seven guards around her, hold
Literature
the flower club
dear preacher,
i've got something to admit
last sunday
i was in the field
i was watching the flowers get dressed
well they're just so pretty naked
petals tucked into their sides
and watching them unfold
i was watching them pull down the sunrise
and put it on themselves
so i'm a sinner for it
cause i watched them bathe, too
stand around together in the shower
a hundred ladies in their beautiful skins
pink small ones
big blue proud ones
letting the droplets collect and residue
on their finery and shamelessly bare leaves
well that's my confession preacher
i watch the flowers strip and tease
Literature
Grandfather
I recall,
He was white.
But, not the
--"controversial at political dinner parties" and "this racist comment will cost him the election kind"--
Stark, snowy, riveting white.
His hair was always victim to the static that came from
resting against
the mountain of pillows that topped off his hospital bed.
He always lay there,
a beacon in the middle of the dark, mudd brown, living room.
I suppose it was hell to live the last of his life there,
but at six, I thought he was God,
living on a cloud that was Heaven.
I remember his warm hands, their blue lines, and their wrinkles,
the way his smile never met his eyes--
and his eyes said he
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
Some things are beyond our ability to articulate.
© 2014 - 2024 CatharticDistraction
Comments1
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
to truly be happy we must let go of our attachment to it-Ajahn Brahn