Belonging to this species feels like I'm a sane man trapped in an over crowded mental facility, and the patients are running the show.
This is birth, and out of the placenta emerges consciousness - like an autumn flower that springs out of an ashy vale – This is the first light of a long day, and this is where we linger under the oppressive Sun.
In hapless fantasies.
Where the inanimate wander, and the animate lay lifeless. Where people breathe under water, and fish on land. Where cows soar over the moon, and where men are capable of good.
Don't forget to feel.
Like blind men that stride unwittingly down the pavement striking, at random, every ob
Time is tedious.
And bound to men - We drag the months, days, hours, and seconds; and in our wake trails an impression in the desert sand. A reminder of where we've been, or not been. As we walk, and the weight becomes more cognizant to us, the load now a familiar burden.
Life is intolerable.
The life of a broken record - The mundane persistence of rehearsed habits; the rhythm and imagined meandering of life, unable to stray, inevitably coalescing with every other fabricated deviation. In that moment they become one monotonous labour. One that becomes us – and as the record drones ceaselessly, we begin to think, maybe the record is not broken; maybe this is the only sound on the record. Maybe this was its intended condition.
Previous PostsThe Asylum, posted October 1st, 2013, 1 comment
Unfinished Thoughts, posted September 25th, 2013, 1 comment
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