Empathy is an art, a dance of epic proportions, overpower and the other person shuts down, subservient and the other person overshadows you. You have to be an experienced tightrope walker in slippery ballet shoes, spinning pirouettes on a string, dancing to the applause of an audience that refuses to buy a ticket because it's too expensive. It's free because it's priceless, it's discounted because it's free.
It's one of those things that everyone think they have without much effort, not many actually do have also after conscious search. It's casually thrown out, we feel it we feel it. Some people feel it everyday for everyone, others seldom feel it for anyone. You feel it for too many, it loses value in the eyes of comparison, you feel it for too few and you're an asshole.
It's just as easily strewed on the beach, floating away with the tide, polluting the sea of the best things are for free. Up up and away! Float float and sunk. So delicate and airy, so solemn and heavy. It will lift you up with two fingers and drop you into a well of agony. Puppet strings tied to the hearts of givers, manipulated by image cautious takers.
The sums never do add up, the number of people who think they're empathetic and how the world is a mess. It's taboo to talk about it, you're either claiming credit or boasting, selfishly hoarding it or foolishly leaking it.
It's a period, a few drops worry you, you anticipate the gush, pray for the release. When it comes in a flood of relief, it's now a bother, you forget the initial worry, you exhaustively anticipate the ending. When it totally stops, you wonder if you're a serial killer, now the blood is on your hands, you panic, wonder if you're selfish. You look around, wonder if anyone noticed, that's when you realise how many serial killers there always were. It devastates you, it also gives you carte blanche to be just as careless, they don't care, why should I? Even the score, do the math, heartache versus heartless, tied up in a yellow ribbon, dangling from the pinkie of humanity, seductively enticing, manically slutty without a clue.
You do what a politically correct person does, buffer everyone with cottony soft landings, in case they accidentally break. As they try to tear your legs apart and screw you instead. Just for the jollies after lollies, the haunting Pennywise jeer that follows the precious tempting sweeties.
You try different landing strips, the shallow splash of a wading pool, the safe nest of feathery nature, the bouncy castle of hope. You hear the complains of being waterboarded, controlled, unrealistic. You ask, why do I bother again? Wasted time and energy on noise that close ears, smoke that clog lungs, ignorance that always takes more than it gives.
It's art because it's a masterpiece, a Leonardo da Vinci, maybe that's why Mona Lisa is smiling, she's smirking at how ego can be admired for centuries, the flow of divine is mistaken for free when it comes with a lavish sacrifice that ego refuses to dish.
Signed by the creator, painted intentionally, meant to be hung in a museum of precious moments, sheltered under intersectional laser beams of scrutiny, guards standing by with eagle eyes deterring thieves. Hordes of students drift by in an hourglass of sand dunes on slides, looking through the distorted lens of innocent eyes eager for happiness. Forgetting meaning, scratching the surface, neglecting the great beyond of uncharted territory.
As forgeries flood the market with sympathy, the mistaken equivalent of empathy, the lesser known cousin masquerading as the real deal, Moaning Lisa, always complaining. Demanding the same price, without the gravitas of healing prowess behind it. A price too dear for small minds, a greedy hand too fast to grab the pussy as pussy hats show up pink. A watered down version of period red, pondering heart in hand, when does the madness end, under the layers of touch ups, we're all spiritual beings on a human journey.
Love, light and peace.
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