The Glamor of the Damned

There's a strange and inexplicably beautiful glamor around the damned. The obvious ruination of people degraded by life and substance. People that choose not to be blank and expressionless. People that choose to be shaped by their emotions. It's such a wonderful decadence. To see skin as a map of experience, rounded by bone, sketched by ink and scars. You know, the skin is a barrier, a border if you want. Within it lie souls, real souls, gazing curious and sad each day, only to wander the extraordinary world outside only when the night slips in, when eyelids fall like heavy curtains at the end of an absurd play. It's a peculiar place for a soul to be. In meat suits, looking around, confused, for others of its kind. Most of the time they see only meat. No sparkle dancing on irises, no twitch of joy, no biting of lips in anticipation. Just an emotionless figure contorted by fatigue, indifference and discomfort. All the souls have ran away from this country. They flew, they rode, they swam. They saved themselves. Good for them. The rest, well, they're merging into matter, into meat; right outside your window, in malls, hotels and parking lots. With each passing day, the flesh and the spirit become less and less differentiated. But there's still love. In lighted alleyways, in parks beneath the trees, in bottles of delight and cigarettes shared on sidewalks. There's love in shoes that race each other, in clothes offered in cold mornings. In all the bodies soaked in the sea. There's love in water, salt and sand. There's love in pianos, in guitars, violins and giant speakers. There's love in pot and pills and powder. It's lost, but it lingers in memory, in conscience, in spirit. Love that doesn't expect perfection. Love that needs no change. Love that sets fire to the bored, love that rains soothingly on the bleeding. Emotion. The tranquil, liquid substance of life that hurts and heals, fights but never yields.
It's a pity that the world is not ready for love, kind gestures and decency. They will take it as irony or suspect you are brooding some obscure interest. They will fear you and hate you, and laugh at your moronic intentions...and then...then they'll complain there's not one human in humanity. But you will emerge triumphant. Because the world is haunted by traumatic complex. Silk suits and satin dresses will try to hide unfit, unattractive and unacceptable minds. While we, the scarred, the tattooed, the tattered and torn will walk under the sun dressed in the fabric of our souls. And we will shine as they do.