(no subject)
How does one change their life in a moments notice when they realize it no longer works in the way it once did? Or for that matter change their life completely? Can it actually be done or is it simply an illusion we put upon ourselves, biding our time until the life we lead comes back into comfortable fit? Like an old shirt one rediscovers after losing weight. The worlds I live in no longer exist except as illusions and romantic dreams.
So much has changed for the better in the past two years, yet the unnoticed flux when finally viewable seems rapid and suddenly at a complete stop. Is that true? I don't know. The evolutionary process is far from dead, yet completely in its continual motion. Tides again effect their ways upon my life. Ebbs and flows, surges and recesses and I'm forced to wonder if I am fully, or even partially, prepared for the next step in the process. It's the Pheonix tht haunts me these days, borne of fire, death of ashes and I feel a life familiar.
At this juncture it seems of great import not just to evaluate the forest, but with it each individual tree that stakes its claim of ground. To analyze both the sum and it's parts tearing them apart and rebuilding in such a manner to one, see if it can be done and two, stabilize or eliminate the unnecessary so as not to clog the forest with undergrowth and useless sentients. A dounting task with no clear reason or meaning. Possibly impossible considering its very nature. The sweater of life itching my mind and forcing me to scratch at my soul until it is a raw, screeshing, dissonant sound of sado-masochistic pleasure rupturing the eardrums and eliminating the senses. And at such a point, will I be nothing more than the Pinball Wizard waiting for an awakening or another of the mindless masses caught up in a world of soft, fruity, safe lies protecting me for what is real. Ignorant of the Capitalistic Imperialism which infects the machine corroding the parts, yet whirs in such a way as to fool the Guard into believing it still works. The Emperor has no clothes and we stand naked with Him believing that elegant, superior garments cover us all. At best they are tattered and loosely woven, but in reality there is none.
We are the inheritors and victims of our parents world. Wherein they once wore their disillusionment as a badge of honor, we wear it as a mask of shame built on newfound lies and forgotten lives. The rich write our lives for their own entertainment. Ourselves slaves to theur being, nothing more than another cause to support or rally against. In either case the solution is the same unsuccessful, worn out method of throwing green-paper at it until they can pretend it has disappeared.
And when it comes into style again -- fad reborn... Pheonix of fasle caring -- everything remains the same. Same mindsets procreating and bearing fruits of the same solutions -- Nothing more than an incestuous affair of pure adultery in which each subsequent generation is born more ignorant than the last (the growth exponential) -- only the scenery cahnges like a B-movie travel sequence that goes around full circle, yet the participants themselves never move, never grow older. Only the names will change to protect the guilty who can buy not only their freedom, but alas their salvation also. The only question is how much are you willing to pay? After all it's only and Ebay auction of the soul, where the only way to lose is to be constantly outbid.
The living room has become a voting booth. -- Marshal McLuhan
The candidates prepackaged, wrapped in cellophane with styrofoam protectors sitting happily on the store shelf, their only concern lies dormant and meaningless in your pocket or wallet. Folded sawbucks, soft to the touch, a combination of wasted wood and chemical dye which produce a false euphoria and elated sense of being, while a war of half-truths, illogical and irrational thinking, and innocent loss is waged on the poor in order to give the Emperial Guard the identical sensations they so recklessly destroy lives to get.
This is your world handed down from your progenitors as a gift, wrapped in shiny paper, topped with a giant, fluffy bow of lapses of judgement and logical errors you accept happily with a hug and kiss all summed up with a carefully worded thank-you note written on frilly, white paper in a careful hand, making sure all the I's are dotted and all the T's crossed, with the correct punctuation you learned from a flawed and inadequate educational system set up to keep you ignorant, mailed after an acceptably preplanned amount of time.
Yes, it seems the Pheonix that is my life is in retrograde, headed once again towards that pile of death ash. And where are the disillusioned, dejected persons for whom this life isn't enough? (Very few, if any of which, are clad in nostalgic black, rock t-shirts and ass-kicking boots, wrapped in leather or donning mesh, fishnet and latex, all done up in pseudo-vampiric, goth ragdoll apparel, eyes darkened to the world to convey a sense of dispair and rejectedness which isn't there to all those who surround you looking the same). Flower dresses and patchouli aren't enough and fall far short of the actual metallic, bile taste that fills the mouth and coats the tongue, swelling it to abnormal proportion whilst the stomach grows nauseated and the brain is slowly eaten away at like some barbaric torture. The fact is you are not different because of style or because of the ideology you memorized to impress the clueless with whom you roam. And the truly dejected are not different, merely the same, sentenced to a penance of emotional awareness that escapes most. The only freedom is to forget, which in itself isn't freedom but merely entering a punishment of a different kind. Awareness or lack-thereof are merely sentences for different crimes. In the end we are all guilty.
The worlds I live in are dead. The worlds I long to live in are also long dead. Peace and love, rebellion and change, are nothing more than marketable concepts to increase the green-paper collection of the few. There is only meaning in those things we give meaning to and we are at liberty to change or completely remove the meaning at our own whim. Outside that there exists only intangible objects and ideas.
So what is left is to ask yourself: "When the music plays and the beats thumps in your soul will you succumb to primitive instinct and dance however it carries you, or will you sit at the table, sipping a beverage and smoking, afraid to be what you truly are? Animal." Cause when you really listen, the "Theme from Love Story" is a sad, tragic song.