It can be terribly easy to remember one's own shortcomings in times of self-reflection.
Selfish desire, fear, hope, pain, acceptance, and spite all seem to dissolve thoroughly into and through each layer of my sentience under the slightest pressure from outside.
I wouldn't trade my life for any; it'd be impossible to really say why. But, for fucks sake, the dance is so sweet. Deeper and shallow after, recycling emotions keep me on my toes.
Gratitude sweeps me off of my feet when its sinks those dusty talons into my shell. I thank you, we thank them, they thank those who provide our sanctuary from the destruction of our coarse hate and endless selfishness. Pulling me back out of contempt, the flowing hands and hips of my tribal shamans. You've saved me.
Smiling again, I cannot resist the joys that do not resist my charisma. Life is hilarious when you squint your eyes just right. I am that giggling fool in the corner of the pub, foaming at the mouth, violently muttering something about 'the righteous qualms of the passionate persuasions' or some other new age horse shit. He is pitiful, and yet... a needle of jealousy threads between my palms as I grasp for the meaning in my own arbitrary existence. We are pitiful....
... and I am no longer simply in love. I am inside the rippling sphere of cherishment, looking out towards my prey, my hopes, my worthy challenges and bitter defeats.
The order is my chaos but we are always in between.