Five Others

Dream giver shackled in, but that is not my name. Caught a lot of locks when the looting bestowed its gifts. The profits were but dust, past and future stayed up and frayed out, lacing things with reference humour. Trains running through the night's skin, daytime melancholy. Ask the moon for your mission and believe in what is received, and once that's done look at the sky and know the colour that you see.

Make them feel, yeah?

Been so young that you seen the hex, would it be profound if it was complex? Nah, you say brain like you know your part, lots of passion but got no heart, lots to burn but you got no spark. Space is weak but it's also dark, you ain't quite been so you shouldn't start. Smoke that guilt, shoot those quarks, but there's never a them, just projections of me, and the doubt that's inside as the questioning speaks. How is it that you could earn if there's not a thing you could deserve? Help you reap come the harvest moon, counting seeds is all I'd do. Why aren't you there for me?

Picture perfect efflorescent exoteric imperfections laughing at the patterns that are spawns of their reflections. Freedom isn't here. I miss you like two years ago. High gloss nostalgia nite, context driven beauty, lite. Rave lust cliches from the corner of your cornea to the back door orphans gone a little pale with the palinodes. Love is not a palindrome, a symptom of the anxiousness rising from the statues of a million years worth of employers that will always hold more weight than the shoulders of the soul that didn't want one. Doubt the fact but not the words, the ones elusive, haven't heard the anger and the hate used to disguise the lynchpin's phantom pain. It kills me to do this but this is how you spell it out:

Feed me like sunrise forwards, express delicate strokes of waning jealousy. Green is ambition, to want that which is not, to overlook the present. The path through the maze is extracting possibilities, distinguishment anguishes the evanescence of will. An old hand, a step forward, a step closer... You can't audit life, my friend. A forgotten voice. You can't audit life, my friend. Shed your rags of shame. Embrace your day of reckoning.

All these numbers and contexts are floating. Physicists see the gears and the years of a thousand stars; find the pieces of every broken heart. Well it hurts to know that this is not where you wanted, these are nothing next to what you could've known, but it's easy to say what you could've done. And it's sad when you say that you think it's done. Well you said that you thought you had something different. Tell me now, why is this what you're reaching for? Can't quite see or explain but you think there's more, what gives you the gall to act so bored? Talking down to the giants whom you abhor, jealousy couldn't bitter more. Say goodbye to the things you've been looking for.

It’s the same feeling just a different posture. It’s the same message, you just write it down differently. Every thought or feeling or action or plan or situation can be postured, because at the end of the day people don’t want to understand, they only want to be understood. To make them feel understood is to be their light. To ask to be understood is to submit. Posture to accept their submission.

Can't help it. All of a sudden things wisp through your hands and you forget. These inferred criteria an elusive foe, an impossibly aggravating and equally unquantifiable set of parameters that are rejected by all, denied cognitive existence. This does not make them any less true. Your valuations are worth only as much as your ability to enforce them. There is not evil in this world.

What I've been missing/ All of these years/ Cover complexity/ Turn me in/ Always keep it/ What you need/ What is need/ Even the score/ So I can be

Lastly know broken almost but hereafter deiform accidence persuade duple social fragments. Over sensationalization of specific degeneration called inheritance vastly contradict and in the fissure find the meaning of creation. Obvious is painful but so is purposeless deviance from obvious and so it is not the input and the outlet but rather the output and the inlet. Return to ci-devant and footing, rooting social circumstances are bubble wrapped because we're tired of stale jokes and nothing is fast enough because I'm here now. Look over the edge of the cliff because I've got to tell you how almost relativistic it is. And it's not dystopian; it's amalgamation and branding and meta-corporate tendencies and the developed fetishization of their abuse that makes this callous impossible to break.

Machine hum, running water, constant loops, cycles within seconds within moments like maps to scale time, matter and context. Eyes shift, half a cycle. Melting metal cages over skeletons, through organs, distort physical relation with reality, existential numbness. Like eyes empty for a lost temple of incipient thaumaturgy. Like eyes empty to style thus substance, not the other way around. Like eyes ambitious and thoughtful and empathetic yet empty to see they are so. To cheat fondness to but this disconsolate exiguity, grown up verdant around cages and yeah, you can see, but I don't want you to. Like eyes empty see eyes empty are empty so cannot see eyes not empty because they are. 

So concerned with am and is. Is concerned with so and am. Am concerned with is and so.

If you follow this wormhole you can reach the farthest ends of the observable universe. Emptiness is the phobia at every end. Every page and pore filled up with ink, every moment filled up with words, every night filled up with strangers, every second filled up with activity. Constant stimulation; echoes, answers, anagrams. Affirmation of thought and self, tastelessly stacked out of phase so much as to give the illusion of personae. Minimalism becomes both elegant and pretentious by default. And all of a sudden, I am but a cynic and a critic.

Habits. Every night this, after that, instead of those, grasping for vapid vapors, pacing through the pros and cons of these meaningless hours exhaustively. Habits. Rhythms, intervals, flow, ritualization. Bricks of the wall but not the divide, inessential characteristics of life, yet wrongly mistaken of holding importance. Why then does your absence hold such weight? Why is it when the superficial aspects of being are cast aside comfort, courage and confidence go along with them? The exposed nerve so eloquent, unequivocal, it sparks the spirit of rage and vengeance, the agony of defeat, the stubbornness to challenge an unchangeable truth. Habits. Sacrifice. Brain tape. Habits. Walk. Habits gone.

Grotesque, geometrical, esoteric, isotopic, inherent, salient data and mean lines of galactic janitors, outliers, sweeping stars to the rate of endlessness, of which this ceiling binds host to hope. Red tape and strings and ultimate observations, analogies of truth, broken down into paste so much as to be edible for adrets, the unmoving zenith. Excessive ambitions and inelegant evaluations, spectrometers for the unchanging bad habits of hydrogen, once lost in space but now bonded with such tenacity that they become each other. Imagination is out of reach.

Shackled by circadian rhythms, bloated with culture and consumption, martyred for meliorism. I won't save my hours for tomorrow. Is it so wrong to fight through? Or is it wrong to expect a crutch when endorphins blunt? Is enthusiasm so elusive? Who am I even asking?

Damn.