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We need this move. It comes not lightly. Strengthening the core, we'll adjust as needed to fit our new prospectus. The object of our desire is leaving the value system we created, geared in place of reason for millennia. The canopy of our nation reveals the truth of this and cues the new attitude accordingly. Nothing but who we are in the basic sense will be the deconstruction of the lies we've only recently seen to be valueless. Thus it is the minority of true thinkers who vie for true belief that outweigh sophistry shall be defeated and expunged.
Can you truly say you believe how this is going down is necessary? Is it the function of its innermost deviant core that instructs, that its nihilistic reasoning carries nothing but a death card for all who contribute to its cause? In the center of the space we see many eyes upraised. They have questions in them. Mouths are sealed for fear of the errant word leaking out and ruining the batch. Yes, we can disagree. We can shout our complaints to the sky, but the machine expects this. Its filters are in place. The drumming of its idiocy resounds.
Heavy duty revival. And you thought this new year would bring a new way of doing the old. No way. It's the same game but with slightly different numbers. Each sum of the attributes, as you play the game, gains nothing for the source. It's dead. Something else has taken its place. The players and the source are separate. One funds the next, as a chain link of causal relationships, or so one thinks, but each branch of the form leads nowhere. You pay out to empty yourself. A billboard was erected, affirming the source as your smiling Chesire friend.
I have no problem with the bow toward the other side; leaning in toward the mouth that speaks too quietly reveals a strange interest in something quite out of the ordinary. Although it's not mine, I see it in others. It has a way of wending its wiles through the toughest souls. It's not to be taken lightly. On the contrary, the rhythm, so ridden, can reveal its necessity when the soft machine has been adapted. Walls have eyes. Floors have ears. The sky above the ceiling sees beneath. There is no deception. I guard myself. I only see danger.
I don't know if I'm part of this anymore. The place where I was living or micromanaging my sensibility moved off suddenly. I was naked in the free press. Few words were needed to describe the scene. The window I was looking out became a tiny hole where mice ran to disappear. I gagged on a fat mouse with a big ego, a cocky politico whom no one liked. The viable room of learning had become a kitchen of ill repute and bad Korean cuisine. There was a bad feeling going around, but no one was doing anything about it.
Clarity pursued the deviance of the shadow and made no excuse for disruptions that came in battalions. I maneuvered the best I could and found myself trapped in the end, which became a new road on a new map. I was enticed to follow it, despite what all my companions said. They warned me. They said it would take me to a place I could never return from. "Why is that so bad?" I asked. Where I am now is not where I want to be anymore. I have no allegiance, no loyalty. I am not a patriot. I'm gone.
Take the good with the bad. Equilateral derangement. Thinking of myself as prune juice won't take my mind off the subject. I'm on an astral toilet journey. It has no end but the excuse one gives when preparing for your first fucking communion. It's a scam! They all have the juice in their waging noggins. They combine and the dust violates no one and nothing. The desert is free for the driving. One only knows the sands in their absolute worst nightmare as a means to digest anyone's mother's memory. How could ever ignore such a beautiful tribute? Go fish.
Beshrew myself, hard as it was in the gusts of the inspiration, I did. it could've been incomplete, but the woods knew. They felt. They saw. I came to unburden myself, and I found my source. It wasn't what I expected. Throughout the gentle ordeal I was amazed how easy it was to let go. From everything I was told, from everything I was led to believe, I was surprised that I didn't collapse as it unveiled itself to me. In a free way, I sought to become what I'd only dreamt, the end and the beginning, in all completeness.
It watched me as I approached. I could feel its eyes. No one can see these eyes. They are to be felt or not. I was ready. I peeled off my fears, stripped myself of judgment, followed the feeling, and I was there. Found. Nothing but a simple transformation. It asked of me only that which I offered freely. This hails back to many years before when I was much older near death. Circumscribing the violation I created by my own inability to see how I was dying, I finally looked within the great circle to see my own truth.
Will this continue? The buzz overhead says, yes. We go into the tatters. We march into a fray that is no fray. it sits silently in our dreams behind our minds, behind our eyes. The eyes of our eyes see. The convoluted mass we call reason for the hoards as a summons to a peace, is a call to war. Our serenity is another mind's chaos. It is this that guides us, that leads us to an end without beginning. it evolves the present as a means to fund the future with a message that cannot be read by anyone.
Temporal divide. The opposites carouse. They yell across the divide. They challenge the void. The chasm gets wider, deeper. They lose sight of one another, but they don't lose the knowing. They know that something, some 'otherness' sits out there, waiting. Waiting for what? That secret knowledge has been lost. It's not forthcoming by any mind of mouth or sentience here or otherwhere. What is needed does not exist in our time or frame of beingness. We are in the middle of the divide; that which tethers us to understanding has been lost in confusion. We live as a riddle.
Some come. Some go. Some ask for their money back. Some turn into money, so they get themselves back. The give-and-take is a party that drips into a slippery night. No one expects the night to become what it was feared to become in a b-movie plot with bad special effects and a worse plot. The actors are losing a sense of being actors. They are cooks in a frenzied kitchen. The chef is high. Those languishing outside in hopes of getting a job are all being killed and chopped into the meat pies. Welcome to America.
Movement exceeds its design. Value, held as found, is lost in the need for that which is lost by its own emptiness. It has shot above the quality star; now, no one can find it. We're being digested in the belly of the wind that has no wind, no commotion of matter but mind, a hurricane of meticulous construction. The questions kept private will be revealed. Inevitability rings loud in the rising hubbub. Belief in the holding has come to grant me my freedom in a devious design. Yet, I take the offer. There's none other. It is my pay.
A clear and present devaluing keeps the mind from disintegrating thru all the byways and channels of thought aroused in dreams. There is a distance between what I feel and what I know. My body slips from clarity while something else assumes a solidity that goes unseen. I feel this thing, though. It stays with me in my home. It keeps its eyes fixated on me. Though all my presence affirms my reality, the feelings do otherwise. The schism has remained since that moment in my youth when my youth was obliterated. I'm an expanding universe of an alien's making.
This is a gentle volatility. It comes with a smile. You feel it approaching the door. There's nothing to worry about. You know it's okay. You can feel it. What you don't know is that it feels you. There's a terrible device growing inside the storm that has no end or reason for being; it merely is. It has crawled inside your decision mechanisms. It has invaded your tools of reasoning. The brain is the last to go. Your body follows its orders. The pattern of decay is commensurate with the pattern of insinuation. So gentle. So invasive. So complete.
We underwrite ourselves to a precarious hold on the borders of our reason, that our intelligence could form an alliance with the collective and turn it against the established agreement that we are in a prison of disbelief, that the powers of control are the powers that are impotent to do anything but sit and wait and worry. We are late in understanding this. Our tardiness has condemned us to be avatars of the greatest of lies that we are truly free. This prison is adorned. Its walls show comfort. They seduce the masses. The ugliness has been turned off.
It's gone this far. My head can't occupy it. In a fit I've fallen lower than anticipation might assay. Streams flow. I follow. They don't lead anywhere. That's the point. I'm quite taken with the idea of being swept up in dreams. My life was a patchwork of dreams. In a period where I took off my skins I saw what I could see by not seeing with my eyes but with the eyes of my eyes. This was the way I thought would lead to clarity, but my path is not one of sharp clarity, but of perpetual uncertainty.
This aggressive movement toward nothing weighs on me, tips the inner balances to an unseemly tilt. I'm thronged by an assembly of questions like rabid cockroaches on a rotten piece of meat. Strewn across the deck there is the possibility of being unwrapped by them. There, I would be revealed. My heart and mind might devolve to the bead I was, the thought I was in my parent's complicity. So it goes I'm evolved, so to the heights and so to the lows. The word is not given. I am not privy to its magick. Yet, someday, I will be.
Succumbing so easily, I was surprised. The great beast dipped its head. The ferocity bled away, dark blood into loam. The earth opened its hunger and was fed. The beast was gone. I stood amazed. In my zeal I sought its death. Before I could strike I saw its eyes dim. Something worked in lieu of me. The construction towered over the enmity I felt in the musty breath of the beast and took its strength. Can I attest to anything that might answer my plea? Why? I was ready. Why did you intrude? Why couldn't I take my reward?
Such a way to go. You know the value is dimming, but that doesn't matter, does it? The crowd will go anyway. The time is ripe for going. How many will follow these folk is the question. I think quite a few will follow. No one really believes the course we're on will lead to liberation. It's a myth, a fantasy at best, a movie of the week, lemmings over the cliff, demented pigs fumbling in the mud, eager to drown. We know what we know. The dark secret is out. Our desire is to die. It's a grand festival.
Limping on the byway, we can see the wounded are still moving. They won't give up. Their mission isn't complete. The target is still here, still braying its myth making gabble. How can the assortment of beings called humans take him so seriously? Is it because times are so desperate? Are we destined to merely give in, give up, tune out and drown in our own feeble rhetoric? We can't stop talking. Words are woven into the fabric of action, and we think we're accomplishing something. We are doing nothing. So pray, you say. More bullshit, more lies, more inaction.
The sky is bright orange. Its luminosity glows like the god we deem our master, yet the earth speaks loud as its own master. What need of we of gods? Let us rise in our own forms, occupied by our own wills. Let us don our wills accordingly and do what we will, what we want, as deemed appropriate for our paths. There is nothing we cannot do. Be alert. Focused. Know the place you are and why you are by the matters of your mind that fashions the actions of your will. You're indomitable. Till death do you part.
Come back to that place you kept secret from me. Come back to the realm you created from nothing to be a something that entrapped, controlled and programmed me to be what I'm not. Come back to the source. My love of love is craning for release. Come back to the core, wherein your voice screeches halt, halt, halt. Come back to the moment I gave up my birth for another birth of fantasy. Come back to the forge. I feel the flames even now. The mold I fitted no longer suits, no longer lies. It is not my home.
I see you so cleverly rooted to a form I once adored. The house around you has never changed. Yet I have changed. The parade of lies gathers the crowds. They like the colors. The pretty balls dance, under which a trillion kisses are stolen for a barter of another sort. In the fulcrum of the machine rises the creation of a bad idea dressed as the Homecoming Queen. Her King files suit. They march proudly down the isle. Eyes are riveted to their elation. One can feel the draw. One can taste the elixir. Before anyone knows, addiction rules.
Flying thru this aged mark, the plenty devalues. Inside the desire of a bygone age, where plenty had a premium in its empty worth, is a wilting face that has no sense of smile or frown; it merely is, as a functional facade to the masses; it's okay. No, it's not okay. However long the facade met the elements is immaterial to the evolution I embrace along the path I follow. In this graying body lives an energy that will not die. I will not succumb to that which the pundits of the world proclaim. I am here, nowhere else.
You take a little bit of this, a little bit of that. The world spins off center. Who or What's to blame? In a circle of jerks, the value of constituency with no focus on adumbration of delights, caves no doubt as to the reason that exists by no reason of presence, be it of mind or soul that drives this topical engine to its breaking point. It is spinning out of sorts. Come the new morn we shall be devalued in the markets. So what? Who cares? Who has the mind to care? Groundhogs. As long as there's mud.
Stepping off the mind; shall I? It's been a long time coming. My mind's been wrapped in an obsessive need to understand the need to step off its edge. I've lived so safely. Nothing's kept me in a whirl but the idea of letting go. I watched a video of a man recording himself being taken out by a massive tornado, and I envied him. I'm now at that edge looking out. Just one more step. I see the faces of all those who would push me. They are not here. I am. My hand is at my back. Waiting.
Always a bit off-putting with the honed instruments of their intent, virgin seeds are gathered up from excretions out of an otherwise innocuous looking piece of trash that won't shut up until he disseminates his offal, being the crux of waste or a smattering of clever sayings you could either sell or make into T-shirts, and spread among the scrupulous and weak-of-will looking for any way outta here; either way you get a rambunctious parade of downtrodden minions looking crazed, holding their mits out clutching books designed to seduce you into throwing away masses of cash.
Tripping along, I love my echo. I love the echo inside my echo that loves my idea. The tripping along is the moment of exertion without exertion. I stand perplexed in the vacuum you usher in; my extremes are your minimalist ideas of me, and I carry these in my pocket. I have no regret. I have no reason to regret. Regret is anomaly. There is no space within to place a clear focused notion of my idea of anomaly. I trip along. Loving. You are in my tripping. I see you. I feel you. The wheel is turning.
Disabling the freeze in a quiet roar of warm begetting the mind setting boundaries to accomplish what cannot be accomplished, is the monumental feat we believe in facing a dragon of our own creation, which we've conveniently forgotten. We stand before a monolithic reflection of ourselves, denying recognition, howling for the monstrosity to be destroyed. Silence follows. The gulf widens. The abyss opens. It is hungry. We have come to feed it, although we deny it; we fiercely support our actions in the face of certain ignorance redressed as wisdom. The cake is frosted. The party is on. Chow time.
So nice, isn't it, the way it looks. We feel so good standing before it. Security is ours. We made it come true. In the muddle of our huddle, the rapture feeds itself. Around the huddle a crust forms. In our prospectus we stipulated the crust, like a good cook of a high brow pie for the King, demands a good crust. It's for the sake of taste and appearance, they say. Those huddled nod in blank agreement. There's little understanding. No matter. The crust solidifies. We are secure. We can talk as long as we want. Nothing will interfere.
The Tip Jar