Sanity check. If you are in sanity does that make you un sane? If you were un sane then you are not in sanity? If you are En sane, shit doesnt get much better than that. I would say to be insane. So you could be in sanity. Why do i think like this? Within the words disambiguation we find things. Just who is it, who taught you your slave language? Your captor? But who is your captor from within? If not within, then you are without. Which of of inside is speaking now? Doesnt matter, we speak together. And not apart. But we are a part. Just one piece in the Adam divided to Adams. God, leave me be. Forsake me. leave me unborn again... If i am unborn, then ill not be. I remember in dream watching a man in the night, toss his garment into the night it is dissolved, his face was Ashton Kutcher, i hear the words, and Enoch was not for god took him. Like that would i like my garment to be eaten, and to not be? The problem is not that i am lost but in trial. Waiting pondering his comet-h. Wickedly thinking my illusion to a place i try and stop ones coming out of tomb, but have no strength. What about when i fought against some ones men, and i evade their swords. And shake my enemies fin hand? It was so small in my hand. Was it mine? Just a dream. But i dream to be alive, and live like i am dead. WTF is going on? Can i content to man, or god about it? If god will not hear my prayers, because i may have forsaken him in me, or forsaken us in him or he has forsaken me in us with Adams atoms? I dont know. Why even show me what is beneath the veil. I go beneath, try not to disturb its curtains, i should have just pulled them down, while the woman painted her mask on, and all the others waited in line for the bathroom. In the bathroom stall i watch the faces bubble up. Seeing what we want? To many men, or women, i wonder how lost they are, for many men, have many wants, but the contrite spirit does not want for anything. It is a spirit to be in humble presence. Will i call out to the son instead of the father, like i am looking in the mirror, asking myself to save myself. When i see in dream, i stab my own neck. And even death comes to me, its okay as he stabs me in the stomach. Why contend for or against? The lines are not clear anymore. My devil wearing prada to me, to become a sacrifice to bring him back to life? Out of death? In the streets, i hear voices why do i keep seeing you. I wonder, i wonder why you hate the face i wear. Like i dont hate it. Maybe my form is not full like yours, maybe it is to full. Like it has no form at all. Like it does not know who it is. I am just a rock... Not a star or sun. Just a rock. does it hue at all or is it dead destined for the bottomless pit. My mind throbs in swelling pain. The oxygen exchange feels like it is failing. There will be a weeping and a gnashing. Like in an attic watching this whole play. All characters, letters signified, to their position in the chess board multiplied to millions of their class in name. I want to knock the whole tablet over. No more etching the story. I want all these thoughts to stop... I wish they never stop from coming.
Posted on: Fri, 01 Nov 2013 08:04:01 +0000
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