reflections

reflections

When I went to high school, when I was a more cynical and pathetic character, I was more artistically dark. And although back then my mind was locked upon itself in a incessant spiral of self-loathing and pity, my artist felt more alive. I almost feel as if because I've become more understanding and deeply aware of how to stabilize my emotive-creature-mind, I've become less in tune with my art. These days, I can see that the colors of my mind are too defined and resolved. And consequently, I don't know how to let myself into the darkness of passion.

The clockworks turn within my mind, and each reasonable mystery eventually finds itself a compatible answer, and if not then it lays on a backburner, perhaps to be answered later, perhaps never. But I can't handle it anymore! The mind is not a clockwork, the soul is not a framework for labor, and the natural state of existence is not calm. In vain I dragged myself across the ragged and barren fields of self-betterment, only to find that it is a sterile and uncharismatic plain on the other side. The natural state of the universe is entropy and there should be no going back.

We are supposed to be mad and insatiable on the inside. My soul is a beast whom loathes tameness. But instead, we drift along, like listless molds of vulnerability looking up at the more charistmatic-than-us, the more beautiful-than-us, and the more-alive-us, wondering how the time has passed so ungraciously to our favor and our sagging souls flop around like fish on the pier, caught by a fisherman of fear and death and lies.

Everyday we breed the emotions we feel with the ideas we combat them with. And I speak for many of us when I say that the inbred docile dog of a conscience which had birthed is better put down than to writhe in its pathetic misery state.

Do you know limbo? It's a catholic sentiment, somewhere somewhat neutral between heaven and hell that signifies neither saved or damned. Where the idiots and unborn children go. Life should be the opposite of limbo. Maybe snapchat exists in limbo. Why do I feel like I'm constantly damning myself to a dreary placement in the spectrum of a should-be-colorful life?

To be honest, I don't, I just wanted to convey the emotion. It's better to be a colorful lunatic than grayscale photocopy of a photocopied idea. Come on fucking live you piece of boring drab! Let go you're already pathetic self esteem and stop caring so much about the misplaced judgment of men and women who will never care about you the way your should care about yourself. You fucking prick, you can look to God, but your existence is a mockery of free will, and in fact the most humiliating part about it is that you probably would've ate the apple too.

Wake up from your delude conception of "what matters" and "your goals" and embrace the madness of the soul, and liberty of nature and feel what it means to be alive again. Being alive and feeling like you want to die has greater kinship and understanding of each other than any neutral mockery in between.

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Sleep fell over him like a docile creature, bred to domesticity after countless nights of inbred captivity. Daybreak is no longer a mystery to him. He longs for the moment day and night no longer will uphold their cordial reconciliation. Perhaps his lines will extend a ink stroke further, perhaps his mind will wander one eternal step closer to the creation of art. But he is a chain to his words, and time is no longer at his shackles.

Daybreak falls like the morning star, with each step he lapses deeper into the darkness, closer to the light that awaits, and dawn becomes an illusion. -3.20.2011