We affirm ourselves as masters of our own destiny, an inherent belief that our actions are an input to lifes’ output. Whos design scheme are we modelling to intuitively weave in and out of bad situations, bracing for our target impact? Is it common sense? Who is common, I’ve never met them. The purveyors of success will champion an elitist mentality, in support of warm blooded ideals, bare bone worth ethic and a pompous actuarial disposition. The puffed chest, broad shoulders are perceived as societally stout but do they actually believe that the levels of disparity between John and Jim were self actualized? I bet that Johns ego would like to think so yet at some point even John knows that he’s at the mercy of the matrix.
If not our own masters, then we must be slaves, riding Destinys throttle – predetermined, pre-actuated, tuned and manufactured. I see a growing assembly line where production and margin rule- an illusion that manipulates us to devalue our stock “assembly”. None of the extras have done anything for me, they desecrate when illuminated, costume jewelry.
Stripped naked, hypothermic, my body revolts with rigors, desperately trying to purge the poison from my veins. My core is locked and loaded, displaced from my mental record, input fraudulently, overexposed and disdained. I’m ready for some Demerol. Perhaps the designer and doctor are one in the same? Perhaps our own awareness is an ongoing evolution, a deep-seated mindfulness that ignites our enlightenment in opposition of our ego, in opposition of our hubris.
Who the fuck do you think you are? Seriously, because I’m not sure…
Life cycles, tumultuously spewing grandeur in the absence of a manual- my arms are reaching for the right lever, mounting the courage to crank lifes’ reset.
Lights out.
¹”I’m too sad to cry, too high to get up
Don’t even try ’cause I’m scared to fuck up
Don’t like to talk, I just lay in my bed
Don’t even try to go out with my friends
I lied to my doctor, she knew I was fakin’
Gave me some pills, but I’m too scared to take ’em
I try and I try, but I’m too sad to cry”
Equally as ambitious is finding the courage to reset the fuse- an arousal of sorts or panic inciting?
It seems to me that our spirits are mobilized for the betterment of our reality. We manipulate and form our piece of the puzzle at constant risk for over-execution, unable to achieve placement, without design. By this equation, we’re playing chess on the designers board, avoiding perdition and aiming for Olympus. We do the best with that we have, animate or inanimate, I’m finding it necessary to flex my unrealized potential in spite of all my losses which, lets not forget, have also given rise to the sublime.
Whatever that means. My turn- knight to E4.
¹Sasha Sloan- too sad to cry lyrics
The Hopeful Motif 