the willing participant
Personal functions aside, I take incidents only at hints of the possibilites of the dark side of mine. In a attempt to cocoon the kind of enigma that does provide a alternative perspective to help train the mind to establish deeper thought and meaning while reading - if you're one who reads into everything of mine but is lost, maybe you deserve not to know something you couldn’t realize. All I can say is, every word rang true in the perspective from which I see it.
As I got up this morning and opened the windows. A fog of wasted years, wasted savings, wasted work and planning all come to fold. Don’t think for a second that I am so stupid to believe myself innocent. I am the willing participant of my own life, and couldn't have it any other way. But I could have pulled the ripcord long ago. That admitted; also never assume for a moment that I am anything other than a complete idiot.
Right now, as I am sitting back and laughing about all of these past entires I think, "Man, that was about Wookie Space Pirates. What was I on?". At any rate, one could guess at the number and nature of people all they like to eventually find we are a public of practiced minimalists brought to face value. We're all methphorically challenged these days and obviously an allegory for situations can be the collapse of the whole house of cards for one who prefers a manner of direct indication.
In a vision of the philosophical "when a tree falls in the forest" number. I thought of a world in bed and what it is like when there's no one around. This cover up to fall off the face of the earth. In a dreadful, ugly thought of how I can't remember what you looked like in the sort of way, where the sun swallows me up high above the clouds. Miles over mountains in doses prescribed for the condition I am not proud of. Target practice on the self by the other, anguish, the pain and insomnia of suffering worse than any case, the radiant indulge of self sweet sweet escapes that keep me tired and walking around. Tired of the futile effort of the ceased to be. Desperate to try to find restful sleep. Fascinated by the construction within a construction, pitched in a small tent for sleep, pitched in a larger tent for enclosure. Cut with a piece of memory foam to fit the inside. These are the days of keeping the company offline on my way out to mutilate nightmares, curled up together among the cushions, completely awake, listening, and trying to talk myself to sleep.
In a while I imagine myself soaring into the clouds over miles and miles of dark, dipping below the surface into a world of infinite peace and darkness. A place where, respite our imagination that had once worked when younger, we're slowly learned to putter around and to remember breathing.
As I got up this morning and opened the windows. A fog of wasted years, wasted savings, wasted work and planning all come to fold. Don’t think for a second that I am so stupid to believe myself innocent. I am the willing participant of my own life, and couldn't have it any other way. But I could have pulled the ripcord long ago. That admitted; also never assume for a moment that I am anything other than a complete idiot.
Right now, as I am sitting back and laughing about all of these past entires I think, "Man, that was about Wookie Space Pirates. What was I on?". At any rate, one could guess at the number and nature of people all they like to eventually find we are a public of practiced minimalists brought to face value. We're all methphorically challenged these days and obviously an allegory for situations can be the collapse of the whole house of cards for one who prefers a manner of direct indication.
In a vision of the philosophical "when a tree falls in the forest" number. I thought of a world in bed and what it is like when there's no one around. This cover up to fall off the face of the earth. In a dreadful, ugly thought of how I can't remember what you looked like in the sort of way, where the sun swallows me up high above the clouds. Miles over mountains in doses prescribed for the condition I am not proud of. Target practice on the self by the other, anguish, the pain and insomnia of suffering worse than any case, the radiant indulge of self sweet sweet escapes that keep me tired and walking around. Tired of the futile effort of the ceased to be. Desperate to try to find restful sleep. Fascinated by the construction within a construction, pitched in a small tent for sleep, pitched in a larger tent for enclosure. Cut with a piece of memory foam to fit the inside. These are the days of keeping the company offline on my way out to mutilate nightmares, curled up together among the cushions, completely awake, listening, and trying to talk myself to sleep.
In a while I imagine myself soaring into the clouds over miles and miles of dark, dipping below the surface into a world of infinite peace and darkness. A place where, respite our imagination that had once worked when younger, we're slowly learned to putter around and to remember breathing.
posted by daneatkinson at 17.8.06
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