I’m losing it.
A controlled stream:
How can one seek comfort in solitude when my cellmates are the reason for my belonging?
I am trapped in this observable state, I fear the over analyzing has finally got the best of me this time.
Oh to sit in this oblivious wallow with all my falsely praised temptations.
Yet the tales they tell, oh god the stories.
I sit in the solitude of a stereotypical 2010s styled dorm room, The colored LEDs set the mood without us realizing change, a cheap desk sitting in the corner reflecting the open notebook with only a few lines colored in, the carpet floor we sit on. The warmth from the floor below us.
In the shared shackles of another we have no choice but to create an exchange of hope;
“A new messiah is to rise in the presence of your thoughts, and all to be disowned by his own people. What does that make you?”
I’m not sure, naive perchance. why must it matter anyhow ?- a muttered reply spoken from my projection of self.
“The creature that holds this sort of thinking pattern above one’s head is to only know a fact of the truth; that staying disguised is the main factor keeping you and the others from true fulfillment.
Your fear of being Labeled a false prophet or what you claim is the thing ‘holding us back..’”
Yet the desire to die is what we all so desperately crave, no? It seems the comfort of our perception projecting a falsified world is holding us back. So As they continue to paint the passports brown, the lust of death will be sacred, for that’s when freedom will finally present itself in the rawest form.
*ellipsis*
Well Thank god the art is here to comfort me.
oh god is it so comforting. - I speak with my teeth clench.
*ellipsis*
As if it takes the allegory of A marked tree, only to show someone else with the same reckoning has walked this path first.
Oh god how I can just curl up in the comfort of that knowledge.- my jaw locked in a repeated stance.
All Bundled under the familiarity, the exposed breeze of awe making my feet a source of potential energy. I don’t know though, maybe you have some sighting.
*The lossless source starts to pound over our subtle track.
Something I’ve never heard via the mass media.
The wind begins to be ignored, masked once more by attachment as my feet go numb.
While Enchanted by the waves, I am deluded to speak more:*
If art is the tribute of continuance then maybe I’m okay with the enlightenment I possess with no chance of breaking free from my cycle of samsara.