When I am awake, I wonder in between blinks and flickering images if I'm really sleeping. Then again when I'm asleep, I wonder in between toss and turn and bickering visions if I'm really awake. There may be a little truth in both of my suspicions; some of it good, some of it bad...most of it inadvertently mad. So much goes on in both worlds, causing me to forget that they are one in fact and fantasy. It's a bit disheartening.
I have no need for doppelgangers or shadow skins to address my concerns. Such paranormality would only peak my interest if not annoy me. There is no fear, there is no remorse. I am complacent in the numerology that has placed my mistakes on misfortune's plate. I do not see things in the blackest of white or grayest of night. Mistaken identities and such markings on the walls of my cerebral tapestry are flimsy excuses only moneychangers and monkeys posing as men in Oxford shirts and pastel ties would make in some kind of vain attempt to justify overt stupidity. There are no prerequisites or posted signs left behind by miniature paperhangers. There are no highway exit signs and streetlights directing my attention out of a personal misery that makes hell feel like home on the weekends or in the thickest part of the night when I am at my thinnest emotion. I do believe in the tricks my eyes play before me, feeling much like an illusionist. However, I shut my mouth in fear, knowing the scandalmongers will tell the world how fragile my insecurities are and how frail my ego is, and how little I know about myself.
Isn't it confusing when you sit down and really think about it? The sun never sets nor rises; no such thing. We are spinning, we are orbiting our own worlds of imagination, and we are in denial that the sun is the center of it all. Who are we but the titles we give ourselves, the self-importance we impose on our existence, and the cunningly cruel rules of an uneven playing field we call "life?" Therefore, I propose a radical change in thought--fuggehdaboutit, fuggedaboutit all...we think we are the sun, the center, the most important existential excuse for a twisted species full of conflicting ideologies, confrontational personalities, and contagious viral philosophy of epic proportions...we think so much yet often is the case we are so little. Nobody is free from the wheel of suffering, I guess. Do you recognize me? I'm the one caught in between the spokes; dragged along for the ride at record speed. Lately, it's been all downhill, baby.
The refreshingly brutal truth is--we are all dying under the sun...even at night. Break out the sunscreen, dig your graves with crisp hands and parched lips, and soak it all up. This is the fate of all heretics.
I have no need for doppelgangers or shadow skins to address my concerns. Such paranormality would only peak my interest if not annoy me. There is no fear, there is no remorse. I am complacent in the numerology that has placed my mistakes on misfortune's plate. I do not see things in the blackest of white or grayest of night. Mistaken identities and such markings on the walls of my cerebral tapestry are flimsy excuses only moneychangers and monkeys posing as men in Oxford shirts and pastel ties would make in some kind of vain attempt to justify overt stupidity. There are no prerequisites or posted signs left behind by miniature paperhangers. There are no highway exit signs and streetlights directing my attention out of a personal misery that makes hell feel like home on the weekends or in the thickest part of the night when I am at my thinnest emotion. I do believe in the tricks my eyes play before me, feeling much like an illusionist. However, I shut my mouth in fear, knowing the scandalmongers will tell the world how fragile my insecurities are and how frail my ego is, and how little I know about myself.
Isn't it confusing when you sit down and really think about it? The sun never sets nor rises; no such thing. We are spinning, we are orbiting our own worlds of imagination, and we are in denial that the sun is the center of it all. Who are we but the titles we give ourselves, the self-importance we impose on our existence, and the cunningly cruel rules of an uneven playing field we call "life?" Therefore, I propose a radical change in thought--fuggehdaboutit, fuggedaboutit all...we think we are the sun, the center, the most important existential excuse for a twisted species full of conflicting ideologies, confrontational personalities, and contagious viral philosophy of epic proportions...we think so much yet often is the case we are so little. Nobody is free from the wheel of suffering, I guess. Do you recognize me? I'm the one caught in between the spokes; dragged along for the ride at record speed. Lately, it's been all downhill, baby.
The refreshingly brutal truth is--we are all dying under the sun...even at night. Break out the sunscreen, dig your graves with crisp hands and parched lips, and soak it all up. This is the fate of all heretics.
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