"Watching you watching me as the trains go by . . ."

Anthropomorphism might be better described as egomorphism: ascribing characteristics not simply of humanity in general but of our selves in specific to other things human and non-human.

We interact with the systems and specifics of the world, whether it be a culture or a chair, as a reflection of internal interactions with our sense of self. How we perceive and value not simply projected onto the external, but done with the intention to reflect back to us, turning the world into a mirror of the ego and all its layers.

The world we experience is one of will and intention almost completely external to any possible objective reality. In the arrogance of our subconscious minds we are unable to escape the projection of self onto its stage, and our every interaction is the fruit of our locked in perspective.

The Truth About Gravity - MG

"Ever dearest Maggie," Corr laughed, "any passerby with wings can make you feel like you're flying, be it angel or vulture you'll likely not know 'til it drops you."

In the depth of his self satisfied wit she could once again sense a hundred razor wire teeth at her throat.

"No, life is less about the people who make you believe you're flying, and more about the one's you know will catch you."

Building From Scratch - WIP

He made meaning
from the simple things around him;
from the raw stuff of his every days.
Never waiting for luck or fate,
Opportunity was not an event
for which he waited
but his way of seeing in the world.

From the mundane and grinding
he spun threads of truth and hope,
wove them into his friends and lovers:
The easy and the broken,
The ones who took and those who gave.
From his trials he laid foundations,
failures a binding agent
for every success,
And with his triumphs
tiled together brilliant mosaics,
Letting those who poured into him
see the way their grace
contributed to his joy.
From his enemies he made friends
and when that failed
he tattooed his weathered skin
with the hard truths of loss,
Making those a part of him, too.

At his end
He had nothing he hadn't made
And nothing he had made
was without meaning.

Gravity, Pt 1

There was a gravity deep behind her eyes.
He could see it when he looked close enough,
And he would often look close enough.
It pulled at him,
Even when he would turn away;
As he would cross the room,
Or the city.
It would orient him
Like a needle on some celestial instrument,
Drawing him constantly to something truer than North.
Some days,
When he was feeling whimsical,
Walking home from work
He would close his eyes,
Turn himself about like a dervish
In the midst of his own private worship,
And let the pull of her lead him blindly home.
There were other perks to her effect on him,
Like the riptide of her smile,
The undertow constantly pulling his lips
To hers.