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One could say too many, or too little. The matter lives in the middle. You don't see the middle. The middle goes unobserved. Lack of the proper sustenance, too little, or too much, a surfeit of sustenance, or not, leaving the eater bound to a furious wrestling bout with understanding. Why too little? Why too much? Why even ask? There isn't any substance beyond the asking. It's in the middle where the secret lodges, where the asking will find a grounding, where the knowledge gained will be knowledge lost. It all passes thru the middle. You still don't get it.
We reduce our space to the visible. One. Yourself. Each wall is embraced. You can see each wall. You reduce the connections. From outside. Windows are imaginary. You know what it looks like anyway. And they know what you look like. But thatís no matter. Into the machine you place your trust. Gotta trust something. Reduce the space. One. Yourself. Can you control that? What controls you? Reduce the space even smaller. Youíll get to like it, appreciate it, even love it. All you need is the one. Yourself. You decide. The decisive ante is in the choosing.
If you tell them and spike it to their center, they'll hear you and obey. The device is simple. The target is inside them. You can feel the target. It has a broad face. Most people can't see it. This comes with practice. It comes with dying a few times to relocate the mind's saber; from early on it's been hidden, disguised, mutated. By the torch of letting go to the flames of aspiration it reveals itself. One hopes it will reveal itself before the final death. Having dallied in death many times, I've learned the device, shadowed no more.
I imagine the source split a billion ways by that clever thought of plunging the mind to catch the complex created to suck the sun and kill the nightfall where we find respite with the knowledge only dreams divine. It emerged, sweeping past the avid censors, ready to cut down the brightest of our creative megabombs. I'm glad of that. It'll survive the dystopian landscape, widening with every non-action taken with gusto by the brain-dead powers that be. The outbreak of inspiration is set. Hands are on the curtain ready to pull. We mustn't miss the first act.
That which is blue rides an unseen wave, kept by those who feel the flow. One dives to the heights to find the shallows that keep the roses fed, scarfing their light for the sky, a cerulean blue. Can you feed off this sky? Could it be what you need to pass through the unseen barrier? There's a door. For the few who can see it, the door awaits their pulse. Let it be known how easily one can miss it, despite how ardently one needs it. You see the zoo. You live and work there. Find the door. Escape.
We equip ourselves with the idea of being outside the radius of destruction that's inevitable, but we fondle ourselves in the opposite way, and the substance of our wishing dribbles away from us fast as it came, fast as it soothed us for a split moment. In the diameter we are kept, and there is no way to avoid the inevitable. It goes round and round. We fear the end, but we imagine it coming all day every day in splendid ways. Our skies are illuminated, horizon to horizon. The big sky is where we will die. Ain't that beautiful!
Into the pit of it. You know where that is. Down deep, where it's dark. You keep it locked away, so no one can see. Sometimes you even forget where it is, but it doesn't forget you. In the quiet moments when you hold back your anger and smile, from the pit it rises. It spreads across your mind. A hoard of mad locusts. The sky inside is dark with them. Sun is blotted out no matter where you go. The loud buzzing never ceases. When you open your smile it falls out. Words are bullets looking for a gun.
I disconnect. Zeitgeist failed to provide. I am the interloper who walked away. No more. The attachment has decayed. My hope of blending has shriveled to a point extracted as a virus to carve dark from its own rotting disease. I have colluded with a love beyond a dream, above the green seas, beyond the azure skies, shot to the core of stars' fuel inside my soul, that which I call a soul, my heart of hearts. Imagining emancipation has divided me off from the wasteland of loss. Intermixing hope upon hope I live within the widening diameter of us.
There's a weird skin happening under your floor, serving the house as a means to hide it behind false faces. We know facades. They cover our diseases. They function as a palliative for them who cannot look at us with any truth. A patchwork quilt of lies decorates our habitats. In their belly we discern our lives and our deaths as interchangeable. I can look at you. Your skin is nothing. I see beneath its face. I can hear the voice it utters behind the voice you use to greet me. I am divested of humility as I devour you.
We pour ourselves into a forming passion, a misshapen body no one wants in their house, created in the dim past. Most houses are free of passions, excluding passions commensurate with the looped voice bellowing from rusted loudspeakers worldwide, set up to infect the listless to nothingness. The mold does its job. It carries off the designs with effortless elan. How we're to find ourselves once the form matures within us is a loose question, best left to the alleyway drunks that might have the courage to tango. We keep to the rituals printed out in leaflets. Best that way.
You know perfectly well perfectly well you know. In the interim one finds a need for time to be rendered silent. All goes round in a vast array of concentric circles looking for a model of the universe that won't fall apart. The design invariably collapses like the walkway in Kansas. One doesn't expect it. One dances to a pleasant tune, smiling, affable to all of the world, until the sky falls, and all is silent, staring in numb disbelief that you bought into a paradigm that wouldn't budge for adjustments. We seek to be killed pleasantly by our paradigms.
I fight it, the unseen combatant. In a dense fog emanating from the center of my mind I distribute my options like seeds along the serpentine path. In a circle it goes. I follow. I watch. Our eyes rivet to the getting place. We spiral in slowly, inexorably driven to the moment when one of us will draw. Neither of us know how or when, yet both of us know it'll happen. The fight goes deep in both. We are tethered to each other, so we won't lose track. Though I know it is inside me, there's no getting out.
Wound about it, the long and spiraling thread toward confusion is the pattern of your long journey. There's no other way to the source but this. You know the chaos is the key. You insert the key. It turns. A door opens. You fall. You rise. Inside the magnificent chaos you see what you no one else can see. Your whole life has led you to this point. Can you pretend it isn't the case? Deep lies rule the day for the sheep in control. The wolves who live between the lines will appear but only when you say no.
The pattern I can't take lightly trips my source legs, and I fall up to a vantage point in the clouds. I'm pulled down by tangled threads, thrown out to explain yet confuse with funereal ease. Such is the grab I catch in the voluble program I attend. I watch, but it feels like it's watching me, knows me, knows how I was and still am in the deepest reserves quaintly preserved to death by a life I have no control over. So I go along. I try. Understanding comes in fits, like inside a plane spiraling down to death.
You don't need to be surprised. That's an after thought thoroughly digested by the ones who created the anticipation in the first place. The surprises have passed. Tunneling through the disguises will be hard. Everything will fight against it. Such programs have been installed before the installation. Deleting them will delete the question that no one's asked. It's not worth asking it, even if you knew it. We are living the answer, and nothing can reverse except for one tiny thing. This is what's hiding inside the faux surprises. Look past the surprises. You'll see. You'll feel. It's inside you.
It's a fit you think connects you to you over all the dissembling muses carrying on with delight under the dome of inspiration. One cannot quell the divestment. It exists thru all the value systems adopted and rejected. The matrix of your personal reality circumscribes the entirety of human consciousness. So you go headlong into the spiraling value accepted. You see the consequence before the outcome. You are seeing in reverse just what you anticipating might be the worst possible scenario, but are you seeing the true reality, or just what they want you to see? Good question. Gamblers all.
The gust goes deep. One never expects it. A barely imperceptible action triggers it. The resultant flow curls inward the detritus caked on the conduit, dumps the scrapings into the heart of the heart. A tsunami ensues. The destruction following comes not as a consequence of the wave but for the lack of its hand. Expectation is flouted. The wave dries the well, brushes off the desperately needed hope. The heart becomes brittle. Movement becomes impossible. Stasis grabs you. A sitting duck you are. The carnival bustles, for the shooting gallery is its biggest attraction. There you live to die.
There's no falling away from inside the bolted brain. In a fever the collective gathers its energy. Out of a tiny port one sees the expansion. The body moves accordingly, as slow as one might imagine a black hole might move when under the influence of an attractive idea inside itself. The infolding continues. You know the image. A tennis ball turning itself inside out. This goes way beyond that. You're kept. There's no leaving this space. It created its own prison by agreement. One can only see outside thru imagination. What exists is a fascinating contradiction. Nothing falls away.
I have a potato chip in my hand, but it could be a nuclear bomb, a vital piece of forgotten history, a religious text, a rock, the missing link between me and the missing link or the desiccated brain of my mother. I could be in this hole called my room with opulent walls made of ruby and opal, sitting on a diamond commode taking a crap of enormous proportions. This is where I am, this is where I'm not. I divide the contrast and blend it into a mixture where you ad I might have a glass of sky
Up to the degree I might see the entirety of your inspirations, the largess of your vision, unfolding the sky inside your eye, unveiling a new kind of blue, a new kind of vista that doesn't include this tired old world crammed with tired old people grasping tired old ideas of tired old bibles of no importance. I value the strength I glean from a kiss inside a dark, stolen moment with you bending in to dissolve me. Then I could become what you want me to be, something inside a unique moment where everything old is never new again.
So you go deep. I follow, a mere wisp of a one-time man that no longer exists in the fashion holding the myriad plans he inside his expanding skull. Shattered against the blue, the sky becomes black, with the skull transforming into a vast spaceship of intricate design, crusted with rubies, amethyst and chewed bubble gum, the vehicle that best suits his new beginning on his new found world. He knows no one can see it. He holds it close inside his mouth. When he speaks, the new culture speaks. He is the new prophet of the new people.
A barbaric synonym, you can feel it dive inside you, curl about your mind trying to ingest it. You can fumble around its periphery looking for its reason, but you'll fail; it has you in its spiral, sunk hard in the core of your soul of soul. Finding the mind behind it is looking inside a mind that has no skull. It reveals itself by not being sought after but known quietly as the source key of a music you will never sing, will never play on any instrument, but will hear without fail at the moment of your death.
A point. Sequestered continually in a quiet moment, fearful of an insurrection, a violation, my shell is thick. Professors pepper the periphery. I'm secure, but I don't feel secure. I reinforce the battlements. I take strict measures to keep myself sacrosanct in a well of me. There is no out. There is no in. I am a point of immeasurable magnitude. I go nowhere. I am everywhere. I see all. Nothing sees me. I am without dimension, yet I unfold all dimensions. There is nothing without me, but I am nothing. I live for the mathematical excursions of eager minds.
Feeling the gust past desire, my eye opened to your vistas, and I gaped dumb founded, for the depth of colors, the vibrancy of hues bleeding into black and back, subdued my angled heart, smoothed the divestment of my rage, and like a lion, sated by the blood of a kill under a velvet moon, kept my old heart in tune to the needs after all the frenzy for a cup of hot groans rising like a whirlwind, thickly dashed on its ash heavy winds to the magic I hear of a distant, ancient melody, calling to me and you.
Falling, falling, always falling, into the question, falling higher than ever dreamt, falling to the end, such a fullness in the end, falling, no stopping, must never stop, to be in the middle of the end and the beginning, such is the quality sought, such is the quality lost, never gained, always possessed, always had, never knowing you had, always looking in the wrong places, the face wandering in the dark woods, looking for the power, the power in the woods. Hearing, feeling, tasting the wind. On the wind is no answer. On the wind is only the unworded question.
Thereís a face across the room, blotted out. Itís calling to you. No words. A window opens. Youíre young again outside. Toward the face youíre pulled. Itís familiar. Unfamiliar. Deep inside you know where youíre going. Youíve always known. The saxophone is giving you the key, the gun, as it all opens wide. A new mystery swirls like a black pool at your feet. Someone calls your name. You canít answer the call, but you know someday you will answer. Everyone always answers. Itís only a matter of time folding backwards.
Weakness. It disgusts me. Choosing weakness, such a popular pastime. Weakness of spirit, weakness of will, weakness of personal command. Folding by another's command, folding for conviviality, folding for your wife, your lover, your mother. Living in a welter of someone else's domain. Throwing in the towel, giving up to fatigue, giving up for failure, not seeing success on the horizon. Weakness. It surrounds us. Sheep. Waiting to be led; it doesn't matter where, just anywhere. Finding that inner steel seems a pipe-dream, a lost idea that has no currency. You bet on nothing, you're sure to win. Nothing.
This infection, you can't see it, nor can it touch you but consume you thoroughly by the under and over of reality colliding. Served to the rest of you, what issues out is what issues in, a whirlpool exists as you exist in the spiraling without end. No volume subsists without the space ripping apart to assume the space you need. All that forms is but an illusion. In the value made real I become worthless looking for a payout. Money? A distraction. The worth? What settles is no reality in the functionality we recognize as real but its reflection.
It's waiting to speak. This peaceful violence. Sitting in your head. The hungry sky looks down. Earth paddles its quivers underfoot. The time bends to your awakening. Rough talk scribes a matter that cannot be seen, felt like fire on the downlow, unclenching its fists. There. You see it, don't you, it's right there, under your eyes, under your skin, boiling blood, kicking the heart upheavals, like a rushed love, faces blown from their skulls. You can taste it. Luscious. The scarlet air fluttering. Look up. The radio cloud widens. You knew it would happen. You knew. It's yours. Now.
It's not the shot that bugs ya. It's the aiming. You take your time. The target is unaware of you. You are too aware of it. After a bit, it's not an it anymore. That's what grabs you in the gut. The sudden realization that it is not an it. It has eyes. You see them move, see them grab at space for a bit of grit. Those eyes know other eyes are out there, looking like they're looking, but not to love them, not to like them, but to put them out. Taking a moment, you swallow the it.
However it goes, you go too; you go as it demands, with no hesitation. The collective pulls you in; an exquisite feeling of belonging and surrender overtakes you. Coming out of the slumber you've hovered in all of your life places a new challenge in your path. What has gone is gone. The value of the has-been diminishes to nothing. You see what you've never seen, because you've been trying too hard to see. To be blinded is elation. To become helpless as a newborn divides you from the rigid hoard, sets you apart, blesses you with new eyes.
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