There are those who speculate that to do is to hate and that pleasure is the measure of effort unexpended.
To these unfortunate souls who live in die-cast roles constantly breaking and fitting in the spaces between goals their own personal holes.
Dark, unremembered, empty caverns of time, chewing and eschewing the river diverted for fun while they flirted with youth, eating like mad hens at an empty barrel.
Their seed removed and my point proved as blood-fought freedom bestows boredom in droves.
And doves, pure symbols flapping “Heaven is a place a place where nothing nothing ever Happens.”
The ideal hotel is vacant as guests in perfect alignment spend forever together in solitary confinement.
The imagination is little match whose flame burns but soft for the opposite of hell is nothing but for nothing, at what great cost?
With the phosphor dream consoling the millions of tube-fed junkies seeking hollow murder and real lives unlived.
To the Platonic cave we regress watching shadows of reality in dark, secure places lit only by the fleeting blue flame of action, suspense, and love.
We seek these images and hold them above any we shall ever see. Reality belongs not to you and me but to the glowing matrix of light and symbols on screens dark grey and silver.
Those actors can’t even speak their own words their faces covered by flesh-close masks each in the flame of glory and fame living lives in 5 minute installments at checkout stalls, with candies and mints. These symbols shape and fill our lives like plastic surgeons on rich wives.
I’m sorry, its sad, its really too bad but what can be undone when schools force reams of useful facts in clever guise as meaningless symbols of knowledge and skill through receptive young minds.
The vital question “Why” lost in stacks of what, where and when. What does it all mean to them?
The winners of this vital race those who kept the pace peddling these facts with grace suffer with the wordless masses in the very same fate.
This system serves not a soul in obvious contrast to its stated goal. The simple point we miss that the mind is our only home and the doors of perception leak only drafts when visitors come as grafts.
We need to want, to need, to plead to struggle, to ask, to muddle to entertain as privileged friends those facts which serve our ends.
Having these in our rooms entrenched the dull phosphor fate will surely be a passing gate to the green, turbulent pasture that lies just beyond the bend.