Except From Chapter 4 Prisons of The Mind by S.R. Crosby By the time I reached the top of the mountain, the darkness had already fallen. Tree lines hovered in the shadows gently singing, as if to add some sort of moral support to a campaign they already knew I had no chance of winning. Winding up and winding down are not very different in the end. In the end, it all goes dark. In the end, the mind will only house memories that are deemed appropriate enough to hinder, to remind, to hurt, to manipulate…to overcome our own paths that need to be made, and in time…we fall down. Slowly but surely there must be a break in the weather, in the karma, the fly in the ointment must have stronger mutated wings, there must be an antidote. No journey can compare to the personal quest, the novel in which the main character is as also the author. Nothing can prepare oneself for the undertaking that is less than ones dignity, character, worth, and above all else…. Their sense of being. It is within this world that we exist. It is within this world that we feel something. Feeling is different for each and every individual. To be sad is to feel. To feel is to weaken to a level that one will sell themselves out at…no sellouts, no buybacks, no resets…..this is reality. Meandering the caverns of the mind is a cruel path, that cannot be taken lightly….there are ghosts in the machine. The skeletons speak in words. Long tired of small spaces in a closet, they ring the bell of freedom, crushing and cursing the oppression…ripping the face off of characteristics and traits held high in regard within gentleman-like circles. No fitting in here….just the face in the mirror…the last free standing entry point to the universe at large….the is the part where the music plays strings.
Posted on: Thu, 24 Oct 2013 06:18:51 +0000
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