Sunday, July 22, 2012
1
Can we have it as it was again? When we could speak without 20,000 others listening in?
What happens now will forever sculpt itself, but in this modern world of open-endedness I start to worry that I'm not fit. I'm too good at keeping it in when I should be sharing and caring about the others who wish to befriend me in these times, though I find it so difficult just to not despise them and all that they're living for. Is it truthful that what you see's what you get or is there something beyond in the quantum reflection that keeps us together when we are apart, like the pain that I feel with each beat of my heart when I see that you live beyond me in the world, as a girl who infers nothing more than a swirling complexion which dashes my senses to nothing; to be a man once is to never be something.
What could I be, or what am I, or what does that mean truly? Is it something clean, or something nice, or something just unruly? I never felt this way before I leapt from the world with no fear. It's unfortunate for me that average people's don't pass through the gates of this raw heel smashing against the glass and crackling it into tiny particles of nothing ever. Now I spend time crafting words to hold myself apart from those who once stood beside me.
It's a battle, but the war's been won, and there's only one way to survive through it. And honestly, I can't say that I'll do it, truthfully, because I know too much to sit and feast in the presence of Omelas.
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this is why women are supposedly greater; for they have "more control" over their emotions. When I feel, I know not what it is, but deem it either "good" or "bad," confused eternally over which way I should turn as I'm turning into something other than me.
ReplyDeleteof course it begs to question, then, whether or not I'm fit to be part of this lot or if I'm too sickly to proliferate the self. I'm under-educated, but educated more than half of those around me; though that halfway means nothing. I've done jack shit with the life I have, save sculpt me into something I never was before, but that I always wanted to be.
And now I'm lonely, and you want to be beside me, but YOU don't, and you might, but I have to fight to stay in control. And honestly, I don't have enough invested into this travesty we call life to think it's productive to continue on creating others to indoctrinate.
then again, there's a level of innocence which goes with being so in-tune with your inner sense. It's not that every woman or man is separate, but more that as the world constructs coagulates around the human, spacing them from their true life, the layers of complexity drive deeper like a knife into the coretxes and bleeds the light from the mind to muddle it into dark chaos, which must then, through complex reasoning, discern from where the light leaked, if it was ever true, and if it was, in which way to re-obtain and instate it back into the mind. We become daft when we deny the baser ruling of our nature, yet this social structure we've developed seems too tight for pleasure. Comfort is never being where you most despise, yet we find ourselves sitting there every day in this cage of control that we never signed up to be in. Bowing subjects smile as the concerto rises and plummets, crying and hailing in the new gods of idolatry at each turn. But I bow to none, and this is what keeps me from the eternal bliss; for I can feel the light, and when it touches me I know my name, unbounded, but only in those fractal moments which spiral off and seem to be nothing more than hallucinatory; a repeating segment of the hypergamy I feel rules the mediated markets far beyond the circuit boards and switches present in the unconscious, ever changing motherboard of the mind.
DeleteIt's just that all of this seems false and boring, like the entire digital realm is filled with nonsense and disrespect unbounded by normal societal quotas. Even so, this unboundedness supplies itself to the prospect of free expression while encountering the same pressure as the interactive world. This binary strata, cast down from ivory towers into the hands of modern man, has cascaded from a brilliant stream of freedom into a facade as real as the face which smiles to its enemy. The Eternal September, as it was so-called, was the end of the practical use of these tubes. As we fill it more with hatred, boiling hot and spewing fourth through ragged expressions over character-driven user experiences, we separate ourselves more from the true self, crushing down and simplifying our thoughts as expressed to all. Where before there was a message to be sent to those who could reflect upon it and call out, now there lies a barrier between that expression. That I may be questioned on the validity of my character as based on a post I've crafted upon the great web not only frightens me, but sickens me to a level I've yet to compromise.
DeleteAs time moves it seems less likely that separation will bend to the will of the whole. Thus, formally, I design myself from the pact of the collective and live, as a pack rat, upon the verge of inheritable society.
Self help. Help the self. The self needs help to help itself. No self helps itself alone. Only other selves self help themselves. Your help is my help, for we help ourselves by helping our other selves to self help themselves.
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