The numbers are down 


Maybe we’re sick of stuff. It seems to give very little real meaning to our lives. Maybe we’re done with the buying, the procuring & the profiting, which necessitates some inevitably unbalanced transaction where he who possesses the sanctioned means of expanding blank value (printing numbers on paper, then charging people to print more! Brilliant! And everyone will think they need this papered money with numbers on it!) 
And so the farmers who feed and the builders who bring the water we need all become slaves to the transaction.
And now we’re all just tired of the buying.

Where’s the making and the giving and the sharing and the being among not despite. 

These are the end of days. Avoidance has beget ignorance has bred selfishness and lack of consciousness. We peaked somewhere and now there’s a cacophony of arguments for postulates of science over sentience and holograms the speed of light, refracting sight.

We sense it. Why can we not live up to our absolutes? Why do we always and indifferently pass through time with no real possibility for life but only its shadow, where anything true gets trampled by the group selection of the hive. You live and love, afraid that you have made some grave mistake.

And then, due to circumstances so far out of your control, they feel adversarial, directed, not impersonal, but guided missiles headed straight for your heart and mind. 
The only defense is the wall around the heart. You cannot feel the way others seem to – because they don’t mean a thing they say, it’s all for show and what is not, a cat-and-mouse play she’d grown weary of being drafted into by her nature and her being, the things she could not see to harness, neithet change nor overcome. The inate. The true. The best of you made worst, a thing you can never explain, even to those you desperately want to, even to those who’ve done the most anyone ever could, for a lost girl, wandering the wilderness of western slopes, the fore and aft, in the north the bear, the east, a shining light. The south was quiet. The rattle and hum, stratospheric din, enter inertia, your surrogate muse for the day.

Pet heists, the ones who got away, stolen & in captivity. She admired those who could focus. All the static droned on until the only thing left was packaged reverie on loop, the fluorescent buzzing of Doctor weight in every room you survived. 

   

 The motel of ideas 

The television of life  

I know people are sick of being shot at and running for their lives – all over the world – yet we cannot unite. 

We are, as the ‘non-set-for-life’ members of the generic populace (meaning not the 1% but the working stiff, the one struggling, sacrificing, overcoming much more than to those who have been placed at the helm.

Yet everywhere you look, when you really look, dissent is in the air. People are fed up. Can they overpower any free juxtaposition of ideas? They already have. 
With all due respect and undue cause and effect, sir, your honor, members of the jury, father who art thou in heaven as it is on earth, professor, genius investor, the man of riches, the holy man in gold, on his parade of death, where borders get wrecked two-fold, and nothing now can ever be holy again. 

Professor, someone pays you to complain so you can eat in the cafeteria of academic institutions. Some evil Carnegie Mellon Rockefellar blood money funded that McArther Genius award, thwarting all your hopes and dreams of truly deserving the most acrimonious horses ass of critical thought in our known universe. You imprison our minds just like the tides she waves of those below belie an unmistakable threat to the soul and her heart, forget about it. She had to reign that in, go dark, lick her wounds, steel Herself, as always and once again. That was the only way she could get through life. Why had he come along and be so insistent they she feel something?
Because she knew if she did, it would be her last time being able to give the way she had to – and they had seen to it that she would never be allowed to – somehow she was more valuable being tainted with the promise then denied to the point of numbness.

An experiment? Perhaps. But why? The data, just like her, was wrecked. She just wanted to be gone.

  She just wanted to not be here, there was nothing for her and it Did not matter anyway so why was she supposed to trudge on, suffering, not knowing who to invest her energy in-ever. It was never right. She was always wrong, there was no escaping that realization, only ending its meaningless repetitive drone of pain from being broken hearted.

I know not

How to be 

And so 

What to be 

Who I am supposed to be

And why am I even here 

Cannot be resolved 

Because I know not 

How

Am

to 

Be.

You know it is never right. You know I am always outside happiness. The deceit they said changes you on a cellular level. I guess it’s more the way the world is.

Now finally all delusions were dead.

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