To avoid pain.. To seek pleasure.. In a nutshell appears to be the motivation of men… Yet pain and pleasure die with the moment… When they past, you are still you..
And now what do you have.. A pleasure/pain seeking mechanism that lives and then dies.. Life’s so simple..
If so… Then why does your soul house so much pain.. Your yearning to connect, your feelings of aloneness.. Explain to me the purpose that serves…
Like a baby she attempts to make herself small.. Fetal-like she sits contorted taking up two seats along the train.. A litany of scars surface across her face.. She makes eye contact.. Attempts to connect.. Yet quickly retreats.. As if to hide the shame..
What is life for the broken man? A constant escape? Not a running to, because there is no end game.. It’s a constant running from– regret, resentment, remorse– all the actions, decisions, circumstances that made you, you.
The quiet mind appears to have transcended.. They’ve only mastered the art of apathy– apathy towards sympathy, emotion, disappointment.. In their eyes it’s all figured out and that perhaps is all the more tragedy…
Even a new born has it in em to fight… Something the seasoned man has lost.. The jaded man has become too occupied with having it all figured out to ever fight…innately the nascent communicates.. While sadly so the seasoned man holds it all in.. And it festers.. Deteriorating and eating away at the soul… Until soul reflects the body– a haggard, decrepit and unloved..
What is life for the broken.. What do their minds reflect upon.. What zeal allows them to keep living.. Perhaps the nascent flame of fight never extinguishes.. The fire doesn’t rage on, but the diminutive flame flickers.. And that flicker is enough– enough to abridge and contains enough potential to blaze as any other…

The games minds play on one another.. It’s enough to make a man crumble…

I know I’m alive out there… I can feel it with every fiber of my being…I hear the faint voice of infinity… Encouraging me to see… And not to see what’s in front of me but what was meant to be seen all along.. I hear myself.. Urging.. Crying.. Begging me not to succumb..

Trust.. Believe.. Faith..

But in what? For my eyes don’t perceive and my mind can’t transmit.. But something in my spirit is linked to something I have no idea of what,but this “what” is all that is true..

Hardships– distractions..

Lust– distractions..

Pain– opportunity

Synergy– clues

Desire– confusement 

What am I that I chose to link… No savior of man? A saver of self,barely.. But a savior of someone? Anyone?

My mind often drifts and wonders.. And I find it difficult to corral it… Perhaps its propensity is its purpose.. A proclivity of truth.. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be here all along but to explore and transmit..

Messages.. Words.. Vibrations.. From the infinite.. To the finite.. In hopes of restoring that which departed from that which always was…

You think? Or perhaps I just think too much, too imaginative, too much creativity to live in reality. So in reality I live in a space somewhere between restriction and freedom. A place where words, thoughts, vibrations, worlds and ideals flow freely. Free for me to grasp and translate.. Grasp and manipulate.. Grasp and set free in this finite world of reality I currently share..

If your savior’ s need is to save.. Well let that harmony prosper.. And if your adversary’s need is to destroy.. Well let that disharmony prosper as well..

Everything is so well rehearsed… Sometimes I ask myself who wrote their lines.. And how come I have no script.. If all the world’s a stage.. What part do I play..

A las…. I look around and perceive economic hardship and the deterioration it could do to a culture and the effects it can have on a man’s soul..

Then I dream back to a time before an economy ever was…when nature collaborated with man and quill to develop a unique script.. 

One fitting for an individual with limitless bounds yet specific needs..

But today… I see the same reruns.. In every eye of every player… Reads the same rerun told a millions times in one fucking way..

Get money or die… Die and get money… Get money and be happy.. Be happy with dying..

Yet true death is transition… This isn’t death at all.. It’s just perpetual dying.. A cycle of reducing life to merely a function.. And not a function of what.. But a function of who, and who is a role written not by fate but through social construct…and it’d be one thing to realize that it is all but an act.. But to actually emerge yourself in your role.. Well, it turns a light-hearted comedy into the most egregious of tragedies…

Indigo… Indigo … Indigo….

Wash away my sins… For I have betrayed myself and all that’s within.. From within and without is the Creators burst.. An infinite source always spontaneous, never rehearsed…

Sometimes, my only desire is to crawl up into myself and die… If only to stop the noise… A solace place of refuge to enjoy peace…I swear it’s the noise..

Time and time again.. The noise prompts to suffering..

If it wasn’t for my beauty I wouldn’t be..

And if it wasn’t for my ugly I would have no purpose..

It’s tragic when the unloved show pity on me… Do you not see yourself?

It’s difficult to see yourself when you lack identity.. Rather lack your own identity.. When you are a copy of an imitation’s words you begin to see life through a filter..

You show pity on me because I see and embrace my Ugly.. It’s not all beautiful but it is me.. And it is unique.. And it does give me something to grow with.. Something for my spirit to reconcile.. A place where my soul can go.. Traverse.. Travel.. Live…

But for now I’m inundated with the feeling of wanting to crawl within myself.. To be one with something.. Someone.. Anyone..

Yet I’m the only one I see.. So that’s where I choose to dwell…

Surrounding myself with the duality of ugly and beauty..

What is man?

But an interesting dichotomy…

What’s the point of loving someone if you can’t engage..

Ensnared within a cage..

Like a princess locked away in a tower for her own protection..

Who’s love are you guarding..

The cage bird sings.. As a means to be free.. Yet,what else can he do?

Is love an ideal to be looked at,  welcomed by the outside world.. A spectacle.. Yet, between the two of us, it is placed upon a pedestal.. Something to be cherished, looked at.. Observed with awe..

Yet, is it not something meant to experience.. Be engrossed upon and enacted from moment to moment..

Or perhaps convenience does win out.. Perhaps it is something meant to be called upon when your mind’s not wrought or loaded down with frivolity… because after all.. Life is important..

It’s our sole purpose for existence.. To be good at life, right? The details don’t so much matter as long as the summary is captivating..

Yet, the heart beats for the details.. The soul yearns for the details.. Because without the details the caged bird would have no reason to sing at all..

The thought of myself.. Is scary.. What am I.. And to what extent does my power extend..

They don’t know anything about the unloved.. If so they would love them like I do.. They can’t possibly see among the dark.. Or else they would see there is nothing to fear but themselves..

Do you really believe in heaven.. If so, do you truly seek it.. You think when you get there, all your darkness will die? All will be forgiven and your darkness.. Just dies?

Your darkness stays with me.. It resides with me.. All that is unloved, I will love.. I will cherish..

You are your enemy, and I will be your whipping boy.. I will embody the adversary because this is too much power to waste.. Too much darkness to explore, depths and depths of misunderstood chaos searching.. Yearning for a leader.. Thirsty for someone to respect and love and to be respected and loved in return..

Empatheticly I withdraw judgement..because I understand every action has a reaction, coincidences could never be… And we’re all merely byproducts of decisions forgone..

To wrap your head around the dissonance is scary, to decide an conquer is even scarier.. And to be defeated by self is to be most feared..

You must be born of that from which this place comes from: born again, Yes your spirit is birthed into the flesh..by the transportational portal of the soul..

Grass..

Trees..

Water!!!

Air… Earth…

A las, this vast world is a glorious incarnation..

But it wasn’t the first… It wasn’t my first..

Gold in my eyes.. I want it all.. Gold in my bones.. 

Baptism by desire.. A manifest of the mind..A willingness to proceed…

A frequency you can’t behold creates laws you can’t perceive but must adhere to..

The flesh of your ancestors behold many secrets… Rather truths.. The pure frequencies they could perceive allowed for more… More imagination.. Expanded realities..

Well,to be in another dimension, one must be born of that which thou seeks… But how can one seek what thou can’t see.. How can one see with a distilled mind’s eye.. A handicapped imagination bombarded by radiated frequencies..

Corrupted perception..

Distorted sight..

Breached birth..

The body can only hold the soul for so long… Go to sleep… Let me sleep.. I just want to sleep.. 

Dream dense spirit, dream!

Yet, if you can’t be born of your destination.. You must prepare your destination for your birth.. 

So desolation ravages the environment.. Breaking down all that makes the earth beautiful.. Preparing the birth of a new dawn.. Of something new whom befits a more UGLY atmosphere..

Will earth protectors protect.. Or will they parish with their mother..

For I will be reborn.. A different message for a different star…

If the mind can’t perceive.. It could never be..it will not exist.. Until a mind perceives.. Imagination is what?

There’s hell out there, in the skies.. They aren’t pitch black but more of a jaded peach… Thick clouds,so the heavens almost don’t exist.. At least they can’t be perceived by the natural eye..

My consciousness is shackled.. The more chains I remove the more chains I become aware of.. My mind, captured inside a gilded cage.. A crucified imagination is but one symptom.. The more chains I remove the more my fellow captures attempt to put the chains back on..

The more I diverge, the more unsafe it all seems.. 

Stricken by fear.. 

I can’t be myself, unless it’s accepted by the majority.. Rather I can’t be myself because I have little idea as to what I am..

Neither does anyone else but those chains of bondage provide explanation enough.. At least from what I’ve witnessed..

I just sit back and watch.. Never responding.. Just watching.. 

My enemies.. Never had the privilege of seeing.. But I persistently see the ramifications of their deeds.. Perpetual puppeteers.. Prodding us like cattle.. Using the weakest among us to alter the perception of the many.. Prodigious conditioning.. Repetitious preponderance.. The same lie told over and over until perception becomes reality..

The mind can only perceive what it can perceive.. So who’s shaping existence… if imagination is void..  

Where is the world we live in coming from.. If not the imagination..

Then from who?

  
I’m tired.. A bit weary.. My bones ache.. And the small of my back is sore.. I lay on the floor of an apartment bathroom.. Thinking..

I’m a liar in a world of truth.. For I’m the only thing that’s out of place, I must be a lie.. All around me.. Familiar apathetic faces.. All itching to beyond survive.. I say beyond survive because death is no way near imminent.. They want to survive beyond their means at the expense of any and all.. An unforgiving world we live in, a place where everyone is right.. No matter the impulse.. Let’s do it now and rationalize later..

Crooked smiles and lying gazes.. They can’t even look me in the eye and lie properly..it’s like they can’t help but tell the truth.. One way or another.. Or they walk right by you.. And that’s truth in itself.. Like the homeless man, lying on the concrete in the middle of downtown.. If we walk by him as if he isn’t there, perhaps the truth will set him free?

But he’s already free.. Free from goals.. Pointless goals.. Free from ambition.. Voidless ambition.. Free from responsibility.. Illusionary power.. Because he with the gold has all the power and all the might.. 

The only problem remains is he who has sight.. He who sees it all before it happens.. What power do thou bestowest upon thee.. A god forsaken bore, it becomes a god forsaken bore when you see it all but can’t change any of it..

Who can see beyond time.. Stand up and be seen.. Or humbly remain in the shadows.. Quiet and unnoticeable like the rest of us..
Back aching.. And thinking..