Tuesday, February 24, 2009

War and Love

War is a machine for converting a single lie into a million truths. Love is a machine for converting a single truth into a million lies. All is fair in both because both make proportion impossible.

Afterwards, the names of the dead circle the city like vultures, searching for scraps of themselves.

We do not invent pain, we are invented by it. Identity is a kind of resignation. The inability to imagine oneself in another's place.

Purple and silent, the bruises blossom in every house.

3 comments:

Musings of a wanderer said...

It is beautiful and well thought out

Anonymous said...

the intense depth of the first statement pains me, and in doing so, creates a part of me I wouldn't have thought existed.

Anonymous said...

Well written, though it's third part that made me pause.

"We do not invent pain, we are invented by it. Identity is a kind of resignation. The inability to imagine oneself in another's place."

~N.