Passion is a dagger in the heart of a cynic.
Toward a greater identity, you say.
Ha, lifeless drones can’t comprehend the magnitude of a spiritual upbringing.
Humanity quells all fears, yet politics throw absolutes into squalor.
Fuck them. Speculation falls into tar pits and degrades into history.
Launch thought through unbridled optimism and see where it gets you.
A hell of a lot further than your reactionary bigotry.
Benefit those who tell you that a living consists of undeterred servitude, because you see into the reasoning that drives their rationale; when you take your opportunities to advance the ever-loving system that they claim to have perpetuated, you undertake the responsibility of pulling the burden of human perpetuity to the necessary climax. You throw it over your shoulder and smirk as they review your handiwork. The lack of understanding is perturbing, but your passion propels you to the next thing as the preconceived rulers dwell upon the variables that accommodated the last revolution’s momentary success.
Make up situations and watch them fester in corners where little Billy dumped his dead frog last summer and Jill took that old spoiled yogurt and threw it in disgust and it splattered on her face and got in her eye and she began to cry–not because she had stinging culture in her cornea, but because her dad left the house that night and didn’t come back. It wasn’t his fault, the F-150 behind him was going 50 in a 35 and turned around to look at the girl with her chest touching her neck just long enough to fly out the windshield as he connected with the trunk of a midsize sedan which in turn lost its bearing and hit a light pole, taking out the left side in the snap of a finger.
Laugh at the endeavors of a poet. They’re too idealized, infantile, idiotic, idiosyncratic to be real and applicable in our modern society of vast civilization and designed scarcity (not to mention obsolescence). A word will change with its people, a poet will laugh at those people in a different language.
Laughing through words proves difficult most times, unless a kindred spirit laughs along at the farce that was invented when the ones who held all the wealth decided that distributing these valued materials across hordes of commoners would immortalize the innovators of the shackling system; those benevolent givers still have their faces on dirty coins today, unseeing and ignorant to the ridicule they’ve imposed upon their children.
Temporary insanity paves the way for innovative dramatizing, and the function of all those waves colliding seems to be inextricably linked to the number of molecules contained within one jar of honey. A single jar is all it takes to begin a revolution, though often times it’s shattered and gouged in a counterproductive manner. Why we must take two steps backward after a step forward still eludes me, though I suppose we like to hunt those impossible answers and pretend that the horizon holds them all, a wall of color that dissipates and leaks inspiration when you get nearer (but holds answers like a sieve holds water), lifeblood for the essence of creativity; infinite and intangible yet tantalizingly exhilarating.
I may have to make wallpaper with this type of pattern.
That’s it for tonight. Y’all’ve been swell.
Can you find the two ends of this line? I made them fairly obvious if you know what to look for.
If you can stand to follow them, be my guest. Start from one end and see if you can reach the other.