Shifting thoughts throughout the day and night.
awake from a given situation and see all fade with a single step
concentrate as best you can in the color pink then arrive at blue
try and try as hard as you might your former intellect is shot through
the conscious mind within a protective covering denying that anything is amiss
a life experience drained and depleted of all save an imperfectly beating heart
this shattered brain spending most of its time correcting the increasing flaws
that hapless keystroke and errant pen increasingly deposit in their wake.
I live in a time where there is too much knowledge
and too little wisdom
Too much is fact
and too much contravenes what once was fact
but now is considered dangerous fiction
Sometimes facts are brought to the fore
and presented as if anew
and the previously held notions are overturned
Then, at some significant point later
the old facts are rediscovered
and the new facts are destabilized
On and on this process goes
back and forth
the purpose of course is to destroy wisdom
Why? Do I care?
Why not just go along!
Would it not be easy?
It certainly would
Fifteenth of May, calendar year 2018. I was born in 1951 in the last century. The distance from now seems staggering. This world has put away its past. All neatly tied up in a hundred years. My thoughts and aspirations are from that past time.
I am born into a new era that sees only the material. That only embraces conformity. That only wishes to maintain consensus. Consensus, not only in terms of volition. But in terms of ritual and habit.
What role am I cast into? An observer.
For I cannot be an active participant. Even if I was allowed to. All I can do is serve out my time.
The desire for material things at this point comes with a cost. The cost being setting one’s self up for their own surveillance. To be pigeon hole’d and placed within very narrow confines. Always a passive sense of a larger entity devising a means to more efficiently supervise and contain. Such thought is heresy. It can only be likened to a person that has lost their mental facilities. A malade! Someone mentally ill.
My stomach churns. I cannot trust the food that I am forced to pay exorbitant rates of compensation. To enjoy. To survive. One by one, all of life’s pleasures are found to be lies. Misapprehensions. Egoistic, smug self-satiating fantasies that do nothing in terms of substantial . . . sustenance of one’s soul . . . of one’s perspective . . . of one’s identity.
I am eroding away like stainless steel in acid. My better properties in longevity being compromised.
Of course, this is all done in solitude. For no one is allowed to believe that any of these claims could have any credence. That is too unbearably impossible to sustain. No, I must worship the rearrangement of all things past. And celebrate them as if they have just been created by the latest of these new reconditioned minds.
I have no respect for any of it. I have no desire to be part of it. I have no admiration to waste on it.
I am just sitting here waiting to die. All my finer points have been washed away. This is just my obituary.
It is cold nearly half way into the year. I could say that I miss those that I once loved. But have become too tired to continue. The dream of the evening was of being in a large cemetery. The colors of green grass and gray limestone being the only accent within the large grid of stones of varying heights. Many of which acting like tree limbs in the forest. Here and there, throughout the cemetery dangerous presences lurked. Their eyes like those of hawks marking wide circles of surveillance. The assassins, the henchmen of Mafioso. All dressed impeccably within tuxedos. And I wending my way just outside of their view. The vastness of the cemetery my greatest ally.
What I was trying to find escapes me. However the analogy does not. Each night people rest . The sky comes down. An evil foggy presence engulfs them. And their minds are washed clean by an electric plasma. Over which, one can only surmise, all manner of perverse messaging designed individually for each head. Some maniac machine. Some nightmare! That somewhere someone has devised. Perhaps the thing is effective . . . works? Perhaps it is just there for namesake value only?
Just something to make the whole fantasy plausible. I cannot tell.
I only know that my own life has descended into being a non-entity. Even onto myself.