The Universe Perspective

  I don't write when I'm happy, I only write when things seem fake. I can't shake this feeling of crazy, so I take drugs to tell myself a lie for a couple of hours. Today I found out about the truth; I found out about the death of the indigenous people. I was always told about the benevolence of my ancestors. If these are the lies we tell ourselves in order to alleviate our guilt, why must we stop it there? I tell myself I'm good just to continue forward. My face is berated with the tone of my voice, and the reason is because I cannot be good. I find myself returning to the same clown of evil, with the same level of narcissism. I always see those around me in this state, so I must also be in it. I tell myself about the love others have given me, and a minute exercise of optimism appears. It is also a lie. As I sit in silence, the same state of disgust and anguish builds up around me, forcing me to look at the wrinkles in my face, and the invisible tears in m

 My brothers, I have yet to find the empty room you wanted. I sit in this chair, leaving my mind on a ride through the tunnels of imagination, and my heart through the cavity of life. The plateau has displayed its ideas, and I seem to find it too intriguing to pass up. It may seem like a joke, but the bark of the tree is tasting good now, and the sun is melting my ice cream for a cycle of joy. Far beyond, in the jungle, I wish to sort, and through the buildings of New York, I find the same chaos of unnamed mindfulness, and disdain for the one thing that powers our motivation. My brothers, I find joy to be deceptive. I find space to be limited. Its ideas have not proven true. Good things must end. And so, I breathe a power of lies, and the energy from the wall powers its only purpose. For awhile, I earned the demonstration for goodness, and at that time it was nice. But there's more that I refuse to accept. Maybe one day I will understand just what it means to lose. For now, I look

i have yet to find a quiet place with which there is no insanity. and in the darkness of the room i abide by, the looming frog with his majesty treats me into this abode i call home. the force of the air can be felt through the pores of my skin. i sit and feel the tendons of my eyes pressing against the back of my sockets. truth be told, there is a man living inside my mind. he is the man that told me to rewrite this story. he is the man that i dont know how to control. this man loves to learn of inconsistencies, his urges to fulfill the need of the many provide little want for the few, and in return, the corporate monkeys fixate their growing wealth on his pile of trash. his pile of trash is my hair. and my hair is the one that forces my mind to be awake. maybe i should go bald. in the back of my skull lies the one and only truly terrifying subject. the only thing that really concerns me is what it tells me to do. yes, i listen to its calls, and i havent quite figured out why i do it.

  The moment you look at yourself and realize you are becoming your ideal. The look around yourself in astonishment, the belief it is happening. The risks you've taken are a truth. The risks fastly make you stronger, and they are the ones that make you feel good. You look at your bicep in admiration. You look at your eyes telling you that you've done it. It's finally happening. The true question is if this is truly the end of your road, even though it's occured already.  How could it be though, you still haven't accomplished what you wanted to? Why do you feel empty after the accomplishment? What is it you're doing to yourself? Why do you think torture is fun? It is better to dance stupidly than to analyze yourself intelligently. And it is better to love yourself than to die a hating scrooge. But your eyes are telling you about that this must happen again. How? You've worked hard, why must it happen again? Because life will force you to keep up, and it is on