The Rock, The Clay, and Geometry That Follows
The flipping of screens to follow with numbers trailing, and skies portraying some image or dictating the statement that we all look for. The sensation lost at the tips of humanity by the ice of complacent systems, structured by the mind and with it comes lights switching and fans circulating, drums playing on a mono stereo that will be played tomorrow; the roads that were there and are there and will be there for us to look at. This is the first day of the last day of the rest of our lives yet we don't even know it. We tantalize with affairs and other's affairs, the dramas that stimulate a single word: distraction. For if we lost the capacity to masturbate to dramas, we'd much sooner see the dusty carapaces around the glands of the third eye within ourselves. We would tear our skin to make red show, the sooner we would search for the tree stump that was always there yet, only recently appeared to us through the gaps of memory and the filling of it now attained through this base knowledge of location.
The shadow of our conscious speaks but speaks in echo; we twist and turn and peek over the highest walls to seek out that semi-audible "voice" that we more often feel rather than hear. Is it the crystalline kingdom's messenger attempting to heat the wax of immovable parts or is it another far cry reason to look in an alien direction so that we may break the monotony even for just a moment? Maybe it isn't a messenger that's attempting to evoke heat but it is us who want it... we pray and beg and scream in silence for heat. We coerce the social dynamics in our lives to have a sort of upper hand in which we can proclaim victory. We want to witness the before and after- the results, the aftermath of our hands, both in the mental and physical sense, provides the pleasure and fire we declare ours.
Sooner would we fall on a sword before pissing on the evocations we've kept going; we believe a momentum exists and stopping it would cease the existence of our whole concept of happiness. But in reality we lose nothing by unmasking the carcass of the horse. We already smell the decay, so much so that it becomes palatable. Inwardly we know that it's only fear that quickly slaps the hand away from the doors to action, because that carcass is us. We know it.
The shadow of our conscious speaks but speaks in echo; we twist and turn and peek over the highest walls to seek out that semi-audible "voice" that we more often feel rather than hear. Is it the crystalline kingdom's messenger attempting to heat the wax of immovable parts or is it another far cry reason to look in an alien direction so that we may break the monotony even for just a moment? Maybe it isn't a messenger that's attempting to evoke heat but it is us who want it... we pray and beg and scream in silence for heat. We coerce the social dynamics in our lives to have a sort of upper hand in which we can proclaim victory. We want to witness the before and after- the results, the aftermath of our hands, both in the mental and physical sense, provides the pleasure and fire we declare ours.
Sooner would we fall on a sword before pissing on the evocations we've kept going; we believe a momentum exists and stopping it would cease the existence of our whole concept of happiness. But in reality we lose nothing by unmasking the carcass of the horse. We already smell the decay, so much so that it becomes palatable. Inwardly we know that it's only fear that quickly slaps the hand away from the doors to action, because that carcass is us. We know it.
Comments
Post a Comment