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Long way to see up close, the short distance between two brains and the clutch of mad galaxies between two minds. Grabbing the meat of mind to stabilize a commitment to keeping clear of heavy guilt quiets nothing, maddens the soul. One is led to the places they drew havoc from a sense of peace. Colliding this realization, most fade the shared days and nights of the world, their skins folding inward to keep the memory soft, flesh smoothed over, intent sharpened for the circus to jingle its way into the world with impunity. Something wicked this way continually comes.
It leaves you with a strange taste in your mind. Rowdy concessions of defiant ideas confound conformity for parody beyond Monty Python. We sit in awe. Though funny, we can't bring ourselves to laugh. Humor is belched up from our own disease, how we made the disease the movie of the week, but isn't that how its done? A war is only real once it's been given network legitimacy, with "Stay tuned for the latest developments from the front lines!" It outclasses the best war movie you can think of. But now, we got a pandemic! Eminent, world-class cinema.
Shaped perfectly, in mind, body and soul to squeeze thru to the next world, I'm loved by a curious eye. Belted down by misgivings of onlookers to a place of blindness, in accords with the rundown called age, melting mind and body down to singularity awaiting me behind the unseen, inevitable door, this eye scans me differently. I distrusted this eye, sensing the ulterior motive, all too familiar, consistently played out along a cascade of thermonuclear love bombs, telling me, "You're a fool! Why should you believe this one? You know it'll end the way they've all ended." Oh yeah?
I opened the door. They all looked at me, knowing one of them will be taken. It's the same routine. Which one of them will I grab? Shall it be skinny? Hefty? Shall I go for the bloodless kill or a combination? I delight in the agitation, their contemplation of me standing still, staring. I resist the urge to make up my mind too quickly. The urge is intense. Holding back is hard, but it's another kind of pleasure. I keep that close to my chest. My desire sings out of my body for easy satisfaction. Easy is no fun.
There are all these things you can say when the ball drops; they all sound good, but when push comes to shove, no one can say what's right or what's wrong. Suddenly, nothing makes sense. You have to go how you go, but how you go is always wrong. That's how they rig the game. You can't win, or at least how you want to win. You gotta win the way they want you to. It goes straight to the heart, cuts it open, pours the toasting cups and leads the band to the usual finale. So why even play?
Primary concerns. They reflect back on you, a multiplex of contradictory gestures of the basic personality. It doesn't stop at the bent mirror. Back and forth, the funhouse reflections grab for realities more suited to the moments slip sliding past each other, slip siding past seeing, feeling, knowing, coalescing in a deep place no one can reach, because no one wants to know of it. Such a perfect way to hide the dead likenesses you pile up daily on the funhouse routines. You keep a few, cleverly snatched at the end of day when everyone feels more dead than alive.
Face it however you can. It never forgets. It knows you. Though you try, you can't forget it either. You go through life as a team. Some might say that's sick, perverted, unseemly with conduct unbecoming, worthy of a self made exit. No one really knows the truth. The truth lies deep inside the lies. It's protected by the lies. Your job, your life is to maintain its cover. It has a job to do. It relies on you, even as you rely on it. Perhaps it's an exaggeration to say your life is in its hands, but not really.
Turning, the key is always turning. Door is huge. We little people have a tough time even taking it in with our tiny eyes. We use our imaginations more than anything, like how we construe our gods, such a pithy comedy. We keep the going strong, religious structures high and wide and deep of no meaning whatsoever dressed as holy candies you can chew all day and they never dissolve, which is a big disappointment. Someday that door will open, and we'll finally get the big secret. Therein lies the cruel joke, there is no secret and the candies suck.
It ends how it ends. You've little choice in the matter. It's the mythology that must play out. It has its rhythm in you, and you must do as it bids, even if you don't know the choices. It'll make the choices for you. If you think about it, that's the way it's always been. History paints a stark picture. You can't miss it, but why doesn't anyone take it seriously? Seems like they think if they do the same thing again, the outcome will be different. Are they insane, or am I. Or are we ll insane? Yeah. All.
It gnaws at you. Can't escape it. Soon as the eyes open, when self reflection kicks in, you see it, feel it, know it's right there. Doesn't need words. It doesn't use words. Its logos connects to yours by a very special conduit, one that relies on its inherent invisibility, that which shields it from scrutiny. To facilitate access, one needs a code. This is not given out; you must steal it. That's the game. It knows if you're to know, you must bend back the rules, violate your code to get the code. The last laugh is not yours.
True as true can get without muddling about with unnecessary digging. You don't want to dig. Who does? You want it laid out before you simply. You surrendered to the machine. No choice. You can bicker all you want, sound off the Unabomber's manifesto as brazenly as you can, sans bombs, and who'll listen?. You'll be right, but who the hell wants to dwell on their captivity? Deal with it! Everyone does, or they're asked out of the game, one way or the other. Private times are an illusion. It sees you, and you know that. Can you dig it!
Round about the center you can feel the heat rising. That's the way to cook properly. Instructions were given. You read them. They were read to you. You've dedicated yourself to the craft of cooking in this way. No use complaining about it now. Too late. The die was cast. Bets were laid. You can say you won or lost, it doesn't matter. The job is yours. Others depend upon you doing this job well. They filed in quietly. They kept quiet. As you entered, no one looked at you. They'd accepted their part as ingredients. You sharpen your blade.
What are you afraid of? The thing? Out there? Where's out there? Where are you? In there? Where's in there? Oh, a riddle game! Back and forth, up and down, all around, we do the riddle dance. Now we can be afraid of not only our own shadows but the shadows of everyone else. A comedy? Well, sort of. It should be clear to you and to your plastic gods that this is an unusual dance. The steps are new. The choreographer is making it up as it goes along. Who is this choreographer? I don't think you wanna know.
Pulled from the center of puzzlement, you could feel the entrails of disbelief straining against his wiry frame. The center couldn't hold. Fire of all sorts made its way to reality, and the fears, oddly enough, vanished. The change was severe. Nothing prepared the man for the change. Unacquainted with the rush of questions that rose from his core like the eruption of Mt. St. Helenas, wonderment followed. Amazing. No answers. That's how he made his bed, as he knew it was his final resting place. Such relief. You could feel it in his breath. Even his mind was calm.
It erupted. He watched the gestures, wondering what they would infer, if anything. Nothing made sense, though. That was fine. He was there for the ride, and anything that came of the event would be okay. He knew what he was moving toward, even though he had no idea how it would turn out. The devices that led him to this place were gone. He had nothing to point at, nothing to blame. Piqued at first, he calmed down and accepted his lot. "Why not?" He thought, "Whatever's coming has got to be better than what I'm leaving, I hope."
What can you find when everything is gone? Doesn't stop you from looking. Gives you something to do that's potentially constructive. Then you really open your eyes after a bit and realize there's no point. As far as you can see in every direction, devastation. Voices rise and fall, screams, crying, but you can't see anyone. It's like someone left a TV on playing a horror flick. You wish they'd turn it off. In a bit you move toward the voice that's closest. You hope you'll find the mouth, but the voice stops. Silence. You move toward the next voice.
There will be two. Once there was one. Isn't that what you wanted? You can debate the veracity of the process, but what good would that do? You have the needs. They cry out for something one can never provide. So what do you do? You don't do a thing. Space, the universe, its constituent forces do everything for you. You don't like that, do you! It's done outside your control. Control is what you seek in everything, don't you? This is your world. It has its patterns. A few are yours on your private knitting board. The majority, no.
Weathering the sweat, worrying about its worthiness, the need to sweat this way, caged in an idea, ripped away from the snarl of workaday Kells on a trajectory toward who knows where or why. Is it who or what that guides this flood of new days on portents of death? Are we gathered together by a swarm of humans or bots with eyes without feeling? Come what come may the map has changed, will continue to change. The value of being here is suddenly reduced under the scrutiny we cannot see. They see us. That's the point. They crave control.
They who shine privately dim like black clouds of soot from a Gary Indiana refinery. They like to think they have remarkable things to say, but if you challenge them, corner them, you'll see soot. It may take a while. Those who are practiced in skillful narcissism will hold out for quite some time. You've got to be patient and keep your head. If you say the right thing, it'll spring the well, and the soot will jet like ash from Mt. St. Helenas. Soon, nothing will be seen, but under it all, they will still see themselves as gods.
Unbelievable how some cannot see their own folly, even when its flashed like a blast of starlight in front of them. They will turn away and scoff, huff with distracting epithets and declamations. It'll always be someone else's fault, someone else's oversight, stupidity, ignorance. Never theirs. No way! It's in their genes, they say, narcissism. It's genetic. They can't help it. Bullshit. The rivers of thoughts circulating will pull in like bands of flowing lava into their body and destroy them utterly, but that'll take time. You shouldn't wait around. Occasionally, though, you can look back for the inevitable fire.
We blistered those side blasters all day on set and we didn't get nothin in the end. Nothin! We stared at each other over our grits and burped. That was about it. "It's a wrap!" Yeah, a wrap on a dead fish. I know who I'd like to wrap up, maybe with some concrete galoshes. We slogged back to the motel 8, had a complimentary cup of instant coffee and hit the sack, but no one could sleep, not after the wonderful day we just had. "Was all this really worth it?" That question bounced thru our heads all night.
A serious being keeps the goods in an envelop hidden away in their mind. All transactions, all missions, all ideological documents are kept secure within a garden of keynote flashes of electrical bliss. Could this garden be violated? Could it be burgled? Should the precious data in any way be subject to an insurgent threat? By all means, the cleverness has decayed but a little. What piled the inner bank of the mind has gone on to something somewhere else. No one knows. Eyes are on the mind. Eons of eyes. This mind will never die. It possesses complicated grace.
What do you want? What do you really want? I can see what you think you want. You say it often enough. What I see beneath your outer folderol is something else, not quite defined enough to articulate, but there enough to note, to acknowledge as an idea aside your most outspoken desires and wants and needs. It sits in the middle of you. You don't see this, do you. It's something apart from you, something you just don't want to recognize, a kind of fiction you hold as a private fantasy, but it's no fantasy. It's your true reality.
Dragging. My heart is in the mind of another idea. Dragging to return. The road is blocked. Storms ripped the landscape. I can hardly recognize my face. The skin is there, nose, eyes, ears, mouth, all the same, yet terribly different. A new kind of wind is blowing. Smells sweet but not normal. Normal is no more. Normal belongs in the comic books of bygone eras. There was never a normal. You played at normal, but very badly. People could see you act. No one paid any mind or money to interact with your life. Show's closed. Go to sleep.
Sitting comfortably in the big room with muted colors, mahogany shelves, a large bay window with shades filtering the hard sunlight turning it into fleece, you're relaxed. You could stay in that room a long time. You've already been there a while. You were expecting a call. The phone is on your right. Your hand is on the receiver, limp but ready. No telling. You've rehearsed your part well. You know what to say when they call, but when will they call? Hardly a minute goes by that you don't recall the people waiting outside for so many years now.
May the shell never crack by stipulations of sturdiness affected for eons, that the crust may thicken with time and belief, so that when the barbs of indignation and aspersion blast away, you can be assured of one thing only, being the center of attention for as long as the crust is resilient and beliefs hold sway under duress of serious opponents approaching under the tarp of darkness with stealth and a great sense of ironic humor. You never thought it would come to this, did you. The game changed. Expectations became the game book that broke the stock market.
As it does, easy as it does, you can feel yourself changing as it does. You allowed it to work as it does. No one's ever complained. They've accepted it as it is, as it does. The machinations have been laid on track long before you or anyone else was even a fantasy. Humans have always been suckers for the easy way out; this is just another example. Why does everyone seem so shocked when it's laid out in front of them, as if they didn't know? Funny thing, though, is that they probably don't know. They just conveniently forgot.
Weary. So weary. Bones are asking why. No answer. Muscles lag down. A private sun eats from within. Organs. Daylight is shunned. Weary from the breath deflating the body machine. All melting down, drifting up. Feels like a cloud. I've become a cloud. An ascension. No apotheosis. I'm just me. Will always be just me. If I could just get a question or two out there. Puzzlement reigns. Melting like a candle but cold. No warmth to be had. Struggling against something for which I have no wherewithal. Guess I shouldn't be surprised. This is what I get. The prize.
I can bring this to your buds, but I can't make you taste until you fire up that crux of mind beyond your anticipations. It has to taste itself thru you; your buds will quietly comply, slide their vectors appropriately toward the luscious item and grab the meat, sup the nectars, fling the flesh off the bone and multiply the inner tongues wanting more and more. You can see the feast of jaws grinding down in mind around. The effect is felt like a quake. It is a quake. The earth knows its own, how it needs to eat itself.
"Drive down the rise again. You"ll win a place to hide your soul." As well the soul might give what it gives in its time, which is your time, which is not the world's time or anyone else's time, your time, you made the bet. You drove it down when the call came. You don't know who made the call. It was made nonetheless. After, it became kind of surreal. Actions were played out almost mechanically. The outcome was pretty much the same, as always, even though you and everyone else hope for regeneration, like always. The only game.
The mixture isn't finished. I'm waiting on a vital component. I sent for it, oh, I can't recall when exactly, but I know I sent for it. Patience has almost drained. The stars have moved. Their patterns have changed. Eons of time will do that. I haven't changed, yet I've changed. The single most important thing is finishing the mixture. Expressing this has always caused problems, so I keep quiet now. I sit. I watch. I wait. Wondering why. To learn patience? That would be silly. As the human species dies, patience is quickly becoming a useless factor? Maybe not.
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