the world and its cares are but a toll and a fare. the priorities and tasks we choose most often mold our skin with hot wax and packaged scalpels. when i think about suffering, i understand its hidden truth — i am its victim and its enabler. how much negativity and mourning come from my own triggers? it’s an interesting thought to dwell on, and its response is a strong pull.
if life was a movie, main characters would lose the public eye after one or two nights. pacing is so much slower and more robust than a choppy, segmented piece of visual content. so how come these works of art are so admired and relatable? i see the connection in their relation not to reality, but to human memory. we remember like a skipping stone.
so maybe you outsmarted the system and jumped over the saving of embarrassing moments. or possibly did you land on every single ache and pain? do you see all in a tent of red? i often admire the outside atmosphere when i’m not stuck in an ice storm inside my head. in rare moments, i realize that sporadic, splatter-painted art and basic earth, wind, air, and fire are one and the same. but i’m submerged in a flooded pallet of watercolors.
if i had the power of a cinematic protagonist, what would i do with it? who do i save, or who do i kill? what do i leave versus how can i go? i believe responsibility hastens decisions. a person who is soaking in life at double the rate also takes the burden. the individuals taking the burden of civilization do so with gray hair.
these jump-cuts may be childish and abusive to your respect; i apologize if that’s the case.
it’s impressive that our nervous system opted out of any early attempts to deregulate pain administration. imagine the possibilities if we could turn the knob on or off. this, of course, in a mental health-related dictionary, is a promising implosion of fireworks, especially when the freedom granted in the act covers the conscious. if you encounter shadowed nostalgia, flip it off to go dark and quiet. if you need inspiration or are in a bet with friends on who can go the longest, crank it up. if there were multiple levels to be inflicted, reached with performance-enhancement supplements, would our bravest athletes go the distance?
see, power and control, they corrupt. this is because in the natural discourse of time, experiences are shaped either as mistakes or surprises. the pattern of failure is like the steady stream we sleep by, while a rush of still-enthusing wind contorts our heads upwards.
the craziest, most syllabic paragraphs do nothing for the reader. it’s pure ecstasy for a writer who is too ambitious to settle into common tongue. chained explosions light up a pure channel of light from thought into pixelated script.
and we watch in awe of not ourselves, but our regressions.
– D K T