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I felt it come inside me. It was dark. I smelled gasoline. Then I started to fall. I didn't see anything, but I felt the ground give way. Rather than fear, I became filled with excitement, a terrific sense of giddy anticipation. Something was changing. I'd reached a turning point. My life would never be the same. This filled me with joy and a peace I'd never experienced. Yes, I can change my world. I can apply the force needed to shape my domain. I will go inside to sanitize, then I will go outside to sanitize. A great destiny.
In terms of the ignition I'm lagging flame on the breath, be it to call my soul backward, while to the fore I'm puncturing the glass we fear so mightily on the muscle I still possess that goes unseen. Thru the heavy on the flex I see the light. Your presence shimmers into view. Not a soul can see but me. I know you're there. How the wonder exhales grips for the ones slithering in the gutter, having forgotten how to stand, let alone fly, fling their atrophied fingers up to grip the spear of memory to run themselves thru.
Fire goes handily with dreams we eat for fear of remembering them too clearly. The ones that pierce are the ones that kill the lies. Our room is tiled with lies. A shower gushes blood on the filthy. Skin melts off the untold jokes called reality that's worn too closely. I am ready for the cleansing. How I've waited. I'm tired of waiting. The line has shortened slowly over the eons. I know the ages I've lived haven't given me what I truly needed. At some unforeseen moment, I will be confronted by the very thing I fear the most.
Interior confusion means a Pollock on the skull, a weaving of lies and truth. Up to you to unravel them. Are you up to the task? Surely, the materials of the world will grant absolution, but perhaps not. Maybe the truth is in the weaving we detest. Should it descend on the mind I'll be glad of the expansion that'll no doubt rip me from this banality. It's been too long living this linear construction. A demolition is on the wing. I can administer the appropriate calls. But how am I to be resolved? There's the rub. What form absolution?
The day is off. A guessing game ensues. I'm party to a conspiracy that I don't understand. I don't know that I'm an agent of Goldstein. Who can tell? A knowledge report is in order. I can count on my good friends to supply it. They know what's best for me. I certainly don't. It's best not to know yourself too well. That can get in the way of the Order. The Order is the way; best for us not to question, just obey. and when someone writes you up it's for your own good, and a dead man's legacy.
Hip hip, the snake has arrived at the door. He has a sly look, a dapper appearance, always smiling, always ready to help you help yourself the way that's best for all. You see, you're part of a great community. The community decides what's best. Lay your ego and your money at the door. He's ready to go into action, soon as he records the cash. Better get yourself together. The meeting in the grand hall is tonight. They're counting on you to clap when they say clap, nod when they say nod. Think of it as a game show.
It's running. Bleeding from the place of questions, the rivers roar rampantly, a manic Kell frenzy. You can ride the currents, or they ride you. Let go. Close your eyes. Find the muscle of the river. Flex its challenge. It's asking for you. Try and evade, no good, no way. You're in the fray. Time to ante up. You've squat on the sidelines long enough. There are no more sidelines. It's just you and the rivers. They go wild, don't they. It's such a mystery how you've avoided this for so long. No matter. Give in. Fall. And happily vanish.
The opening. Long time watching. Gone blind waiting. The feel of the horse is long gone. I go by instinct. Atrophied. The delight lives somewhere in the distance. Shards float. Photoflash memories. It's fleeting. Always fleeting. A face. A landscape. Vehicle. I'm running. Just like those damn dreams where you can't run away. Everything is moving faster. The book is open on a table. I'm directed to it by something. I don't like being out of control or controlled. That's the key to everything that makes me angry. Those who stood over me I want to kill with a thought.
Living outside everything creates its own special mystery. Drawn to it out of sheer curiosity, the prey have no idea. That's the idea. Living on the bottom of perception derives its shield. What you can't see can't hurt you, right? The bus driver appears blank. Could have any face or no face. The route is laid out. Following it doesn't register as anything out of the ordinary. Doesn't register at all. The driver knows. Where he's going is a private thing. You're cast in this private thing. It's dusk. City lights have faded in the distance. Driver slows. Revelation time.
It ties it around you, makes it something you don't to see but feel in small ways from day to day in unexpected ways. Greetings morph, become different at the door. Onlookers puzzle. Responses come handily as if constructed from the flotsum and jetsum of someone else's dreams. You know where they're coming from. There isn't any doubt, but that doesn't stop you from calibrating awarenesses away from the source. Heavy comes light under dark skies. Questions are avoided as nuisance. Why bugger the moment unnecessarily? The tie becomes tighter. Hands pull from an undisclosed idea. One day you'll understand.
One finds out in a peculiar edge, a twist of mind excluding how easy it is to get lost, getting lost is key, hard put on the reality canvas to the volubility of being alive to see reality. Then and now combined. We like to think of a-b-c and so on, the concerted game adopted, but in the guts of gaming there are no alphabet designs. We are all there all the time. Then comes the towering tsunami of questions. Can't be helped. You brought it on. As it should be. The getting is good by grabbing none.
Thus and so, so and thus, you're materializing to reality. Took a long time. Not much time left. That's okay. There's enough. We have each other. A life lived fending off the catastrophe of who we thought we were to find, at last, who we aren't. The face is getting clearer. Background is foggy. No matter. On the slopes of learning, we're skidding down Everest, or skidding up. It doesn't really matter. It's a race, but who are we racing? Good question. The contestants were never announced. That's perfectly fine. I can see the faux images of me falling back.
Okay. I got the message. I'm bound to it. The others are moving back. I'm sequestered into a gaming. Only a tiny bit of knowing is allowed. I'm blindfolded by an idea I've avoided. No matter how I try to open my eyes to it I'm in the dark; so be it, dark is good. It's been my home my whole life. Shards of light carouse. They tease, as if to say we're never going to bathe you. That's a lie. I know that well. Took me long enough to learn. Once I find this knowing, the switch will flip.
There's always one to say nay, no matter the context or content. It's inevitable. What slip slides into the brain, grinds the matter to a pasty poison, infects the eye, the heart, the soul of seeing, issues the vehemence, lights the candle of disease and the metastisis roars down the slopes in a pyroclastic frenzy. You cannot escape it. Best if you don't try to escape but accept. They know not like they think. In a fury within, the volubility digests reason. Should be a good fire, gonna take out the whole population, drive the dumbing down to a pulp.
They don't know. Who does? Ones in control of that which cannot be controlled. They dupe themselves cleverly. Lies run deep. Rivers of mind are contaminated beyond reclamation, so why not go swimming? The whole pool is the world now. Why not dive in on the deep end. There's no shallow end, you dip-shit! Just dive in anywhere. Come to where the flavor isn't. You may even guess the right answer. But come on, what's the fucking question? Are you serious? Is anyone serious? No. It's all a joke, so just play along. We all have to die sometime.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, the vitals are jumping off the charts. What charts? Oh, you mean the ones in the tent guarded by all those Dwarves with guns. Why don't you ask? They won't tell you anything. They know less than you do, but they do have guns, very big guns. Impressive, right? I know. Inside the bodies are the perfect clay for amateur sculptors. It's tuition free if they can make them look alive. Come one, come all, the deal's on. Such a panoply of wild digressions, and did you see how those Dwarves are dressed. My, my, so sexy.
I snack myself to bitch and back; the outer rings of hell hold no fury in the face of a scoop of your liquid love, my dear. I eat your red plenty like the Gorgon feasting on compliant lambs. You fill me up with corn and screams. Our butter back divides us off, and we slip from the oily surface, carouse the metaphysics with a loop over nuclear smiles split a billion ways & divine the mess where the Scarlet Lady lives to be born. A completion rips the mind, body burns itself to a laughing cinder. I await your rupture.
Working toward working, the bits carouse, numerous splinters devise nothing but a beautiful confusion. From the vast chaos comes an image so wondrous as to confound the best and the worst; all minds convening on the petrie dish called humanity and its creative devising, no less a divine conveyance beyond this tablet we hold in our souls listing the ones we keep without names. They are the foundation. In a summation, we keep looking, but we've found what we wanted. Such a paradox. We have but we cannot see, because we cannot accept the fact that we already have it.
Could it be that we've been duped? I look back at the beginning of my layering. What I see makes me laugh. Are you serious about this? Can you really believe such a look back would clarify the perpetual confusion in the midst of asking? I stretch out my hand on an arm I cannot see anymore. I lost it in a strange desert. Desire has been ripped from action. My limbs are somewhere else. Mind keeps track, though. It watches this perplexing dilemma unfold. Makes me think of making croissants. Life is a lot like how you make croissants.
What thoughts, my one, what rivers are yours, what canyons? Has the range of mountains you posses consumed your appetite for the valleys? Are the oceans bleeding into the lands as you'd have the designs to elevate your eye above the wandering gnomes of darkness we all adore in private? Shall we know the end and the beginning? Are you drawing them together in a fashion that holds the ecstasy of finding you're alive as you? We go down as we go up. The middle road seems a fantasy, a construct for accountants so that we'll all add up properly.
I hold you firm in my earth, though it mutates daily; you remain. I afix your eyes in my soul. They see more than me. They guide me in a way I never expected. Perhaps because I feared it. I avoided such a thing. Now I know why the others favor fear as their ally. It keeps one in check, in control, in their decorated prisons that look like palaces. But for the eyes, I would never have known why fear is so prized among the others. The time is now for undoing. You and I will unfold this together.
It came and went. What came? A day, a clutch of hours wherein I breathed, I ate, relaxed to music, wrote, cooked, then I slept, again to another route of hours called day. I'm assuming the nature of myself around the construct called day. I look into a mirror. It shows my intent to be here that always becomes there. Here is always there soon as the mind latches here. Doors snap open then snap shut. I carry the load from here to here to there to there, so I may find myself at the end. What end? Good question.
So now. What now? It's gone. You missed it. River run blue on white capped fury; here, then gone. Take a ride. Grab a raft. Slip the currents to the boot of having, so had can be written like an epitaph. Read the now like obits over scones and ole black joe, steaming hot then cold in a flash, streaming games no gamer can assume as theirs. “We got game,” you say, “Gotta grab that nub of now and pull it into its round.” Let it rise. A sour odor rises. You’ve the artisan touch. Mark your day. It's gone.
It spits out words. You're supposed to understand, but you don't. It's a race just like any other in this place. Someone is set up as the opposition. You're sent into battle. There aren't any rules, per se, just the knowledge the other guy is the bad guy, and everyone wants you to take him out. The man at the top spits out words. Have you ever asked, what top? Where? What authority? It's a race. You're part of it or you're not. If you're not, if you haven't got game as game is defined, then you're out. Way out.
There it goes. Watch. It'd gonna be the one. You're behind it. You can see. It turns around. It can see you. You better follow. You better do as you're told. This is the victory march, don't you get it? Think of all the people who've dedicated their lives to this march. There's no turning back. What back? A polite history lesson in a dried out old book that no one pays any attention to. Why should they? Why should you? You have your orders. Follow the lead. Watch how high it goes before it crashes. You're next in line.
Like some wall crumbled; communication could occur. The flight above the tsunami was difficult, but with a spirit elevated from the disaster of my heart being shattered and reformed by the invisible hands, I knew I could do it, and do it I did. There was nothing in my way. Blue sky all around and inside. I flew toward the sun. I held Icarus in my mind for a shield. He protected me. I did not fall. The wax did not melt. Now I'm resolutely here with a fierce commitment to the cause. Shall I tell you what that is?
I thought I knew. I thought if I opened my mouth when the flesh moved back I’d know what to say. The flesh moved back. I opened my mouth. Nothing. Try as I might the words never came. All these years, waiting for the right moment, and now. I wonder who set this up in the first place? I'm in a position where nothing makes sense. Perhaps that's the best place to be; to be able to tack bits on a board and look at them; to see they mean nothing. All I can do is laugh. A good joke.
You watch the clock. It's watching you. You created it out of your selfish needs to partition the day into convenient servings. It goes round the table, each to a person lending them a gratuity that no one understands until far too late; maybe not even then, fitting the dial to their minds, binding souls to its fractals. Splitting off the moment, there's a void no one can see. They're not allowed to see it. It exists outside the dial. Even if they knew the truth, they'd slough it off. “Stupid sci-fi, that’s all. Blame it on the Freemasons!”
I have it all inside. It streamed me through and through. A wild zoo of Kells. It keeps me tucked in the twisting. Can the source speak clear? I have no idea where it is or why it is, but I know that it is. I am waiting. Whirling. The churn never stops. I keep myself clear, but the head muddles matters too easily with unnecessary questions. That's good. Confusion is good. We all share the same thing. We want the source to speak, to reveal itself. I know it's all inside. I just don't know how to find it.
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