Member-only story
All the black swans fawn, freeze and surrender,
We are forever chasing the white swans in the hope of becoming.
And so there resides our longings: always on the cusp of becoming.
We seek them in the moonlight and sunlight, in the daylight and the nighttime.
We are looking for Zeus to wear his disguise,
for we can only become in his sight; thus, we become through the violation of the self. Captured and Erased, Ecstasy sires Bliss in the ashes of the burning embers, we surrender.
We invest our salvation in their love.
To be the swansong: an afterthought after the performance, a strange lament.
Whilst to the heaven they ascend.
Some say that they have made it.
See them swaggering down the street with their prize in hand.
It is always the same: we perform this macabre game that induces shame.
Then, we absorb and accept the blame.
To lose our mottled hair and become all they perceive as beautiful and fair.
It is the baroque mask we wear, the clown at the circus, or carnival; it is all an obtuse game of charades.
