jaw
I like the visioning - it's how we know. When we let the inside guide us, unconfused from the chatter we surround ourselves with. A post that never was. Still there's an alternate universe where.... And what would bring us all together and what if we did - now there's an idea for a story...oh, wait. Damn! Give away the plot, of sorts, why don't you S-, eh? Sometimes I call myself that. That which I was christened by a friend who had a door slammed on them for it. "It's S-!". I think it was any excuse in a storm, but....
This life, this world, these people, such strange machinations of a warped mind. I see unreality all around. No reality, maybe surreality - I don't know. I'm too scared to do the big words. It's not the fear of failing: I'll do that whatever. It's more the fear of knowing that there's nothing more to fight, conquer and play with. Is that how the Gods of yore felt? So bored because there was no challenge? So the challenge became to leave immortality and then forever crave what had been given up knowing that in only a few beats of the wings of the traversing sun that another, insurmountable challenge would overtake them. The finite can never defeat the infinite. The infinite can never be anything other than want. A delicate cosmic balance of matter and antimatter - how atoms keep coalescing into a life that will never be what it wants to be. It's too busy chasing its own tail: trying to be. Instead of just ... I do not know. I cannot know because that would require me to be who and what I can never be except as something else which means that I would never be. And so there would be no thought, no desire to be inside the looking glass.
Maybe that's why people who are moving continually are so interesting. Maybe it's just because they've never given up hope. Or because they're too dumb to succumb to the truth and we (who know) can smirk from safety afar and laugh because we have a sick sense of humour and a comfortable chair from which to assail the easy targets. Our backs are to the walls and we have machine guns.
and then came the hated light.
Do we make decisions in haste because it'll take too long to make the right ones, the good ones? And even when they work out right, well, that's your life and not mine.
Tonight's the night for suicide watch for some. Some who care and some who don't and some who are and some who are just there cause they want to set the world to rights: their rights.
And to protect their rights.
Show me. Show yourself. A self that is a dying drop of ocean always changing and changing. Think about changing. It's not what you think, is it? Changing.
Virtue. virtue ethics. Ethics. We read and write and think and feed and sleep and dream and wait and see and still we only care about the pretty girl, the abandoned child and the plea to the mother to come forward. "We can help you now".
Sometimes.
And to know just a small part of another's grief as you watch them in their private Hell that you pray you'll enter, not really wanting to because you know it'll destroy you like it's destroying them.
To give me a face is to give me an option. And I'll take it. Make it my own. Make your face my own, but not my face. That stays the same.
Does the air burn as your face talks to it. Pushes against it as you seek to escape it? So why does the cold tell you what it is not? Who lies to who?
Why does your bare chest seem so shallow, so hollow?
There are strange forces afoot.
I don't believe people can ever really be happy. And still be people. But then.
I remember making paper chains.
This life, this world, these people, such strange machinations of a warped mind. I see unreality all around. No reality, maybe surreality - I don't know. I'm too scared to do the big words. It's not the fear of failing: I'll do that whatever. It's more the fear of knowing that there's nothing more to fight, conquer and play with. Is that how the Gods of yore felt? So bored because there was no challenge? So the challenge became to leave immortality and then forever crave what had been given up knowing that in only a few beats of the wings of the traversing sun that another, insurmountable challenge would overtake them. The finite can never defeat the infinite. The infinite can never be anything other than want. A delicate cosmic balance of matter and antimatter - how atoms keep coalescing into a life that will never be what it wants to be. It's too busy chasing its own tail: trying to be. Instead of just ... I do not know. I cannot know because that would require me to be who and what I can never be except as something else which means that I would never be. And so there would be no thought, no desire to be inside the looking glass.
Maybe that's why people who are moving continually are so interesting. Maybe it's just because they've never given up hope. Or because they're too dumb to succumb to the truth and we (who know) can smirk from safety afar and laugh because we have a sick sense of humour and a comfortable chair from which to assail the easy targets. Our backs are to the walls and we have machine guns.
and then came the hated light.
Do we make decisions in haste because it'll take too long to make the right ones, the good ones? And even when they work out right, well, that's your life and not mine.
Tonight's the night for suicide watch for some. Some who care and some who don't and some who are and some who are just there cause they want to set the world to rights: their rights.
And to protect their rights.
Show me. Show yourself. A self that is a dying drop of ocean always changing and changing. Think about changing. It's not what you think, is it? Changing.
Virtue. virtue ethics. Ethics. We read and write and think and feed and sleep and dream and wait and see and still we only care about the pretty girl, the abandoned child and the plea to the mother to come forward. "We can help you now".
Sometimes.
And to know just a small part of another's grief as you watch them in their private Hell that you pray you'll enter, not really wanting to because you know it'll destroy you like it's destroying them.
To give me a face is to give me an option. And I'll take it. Make it my own. Make your face my own, but not my face. That stays the same.
Does the air burn as your face talks to it. Pushes against it as you seek to escape it? So why does the cold tell you what it is not? Who lies to who?
Why does your bare chest seem so shallow, so hollow?
There are strange forces afoot.
I don't believe people can ever really be happy. And still be people. But then.
I remember making paper chains.
posted by jonny at 2:44 AM
1 Comments:
I find that people actually don't want to be happy, even when all they want is happiness. As soon as it comes, they then start to look for the negatives in disbelief of the positives. It's a sad cycle...
Anyway, good post, still trying to understand it all.
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