27.

colored boy, young sol, radiant chile'
your light is blinding
spotted sun
crucified by the pompous public
he painted. suffered. escaped. was buried alive. buried himself. alive. and died.
he painted. suffered and died. trying to escape. buried alive. himself died.
"sometimes, often (un)willingly, artists prophesize their own future."
Sea!
men are gods, because they wash feet
and *this* is the good life
so live it until what is promised
comes to
(pass)

there is no wrong road, only the road you are taking

the collective maya that reinforces this notion of human perfection fuels language's greatest oxymoron.

setting perfection as one's intention makes for a lousy goal. is it measurable? can you possibly acheive it? does the journey to it manifest stress before you even start walking the path? sure, you want to get there, but do you really want to go there?

even striving to be one's personal best, admittedly, a more humble approach to excellence, overshoots the mark. just. be. here. now. this is all you have; this is all you need. make it all you desire, for this is all there is.

fight it, flight it, face it or embrace it.