All of existence is a chase for a mood. Not one mood, or state of being, being in nirvana gets awfully boring, awfully quick. I run after various moods, at the drop of a hat. This is unconscious, which is perhaps why I call them swings, but I create some of them as well. There are desires, and I try to realize those desires, give birth to their satisfaction, which is inevitably another state. Language is woefully inadequate at expressing these states. The very word we use for them, emotions, is saddled with limits. Since it does not suggest inherent plurality, we know there is no stable state, and moods are ephemeral. What creates the mood, an ambiance, an environment, or the recreation of memory, a remembering. Or a remembering of a remembering. Can I yearn without knowing what it is I yearn for? What I seek must be known to me, through experience, having lived it in the past, having others create a living of it for me, as music, as writing does, and having it thrust upon me by a belief structure shared by fellow humans.
The lives I desire are an unending caress you neck to thigh,
Your breath in your skin next to mine in mine,
Your memory in my mind,
brought to the fore,
by the accident
of something
yours