Shadow people, all of the humanity has either been removed or war really never there. Never developed. Never nurtured. Never guided into the beginnings of actualization. Only the shadow of what might be a person, remains. Mastering the art of daylight. I can stand the light. I am still immune to each day's sounds.
Surrender? To what? Nothingness. Oblivion was the sweetest of verbs, the most welcome state of being. No feelings means no joy and no pain. The trade is so simple. Whether it be ten dollars, one hundred dollars, a blow job, a life, a home, a car – the transaction of either of these items would bring all the nothingness the whole in your being can bear.
What lives in the dark? Nothing. There is no life worth seeing and the darkness covers all the creatures, mercifully for all of us. One should only view these things from the safe distance of the grocery store checkout line. But then, you would miss the message of money not being our greatest separation. The Science of the Or makes men and ladies every second.
Now. I'm here with you in the light. You who used to be my prey. I could still do it. But I have no desire to do you. I have taken so much from you and each possession gave me a greater yearning for my own personal heaven.
The squares of pavement have buoyed me along, carried me aloft, and cut my feet, knees, and hands.
Infomercials with endless images of emaciated infants? I could care less.
How have we managed such manic madness? How do we co-exist while rarely, briefly, and only accidentally sharing such precious few breaths?
I'll save you the trouble of all those tithes, penances, and offerings – there's nothing out there. If there was anything out there how could it not be moved when we are so moved that we've closed our everything to all things?
It has to be like this – if there was a moment of openness then the hamsters' feet would suddenly stop and the chill, well, an ice age would be a welcome and prayed-for relief to the entire world. We cannot stop. It would be different if at least a few of us knew it.
Along with sub-standard arithmetic and fake study of society we also learned how to close our eyes.
After so many months away from the wars I climax with sound.
Do you know the hell of not being able to hear a love song? To have all notions of romance resurrect visions of so many very bad things? Now, I can not only hear them, I can feel them and my souls sighs with each grand movement. I'm cured? It is a struggle to respond within the paper thin boundaries provided by The Science of The Or.
Whatever it is, there seems to be a paucity of the ability to use it positively.
The gifts. The gifts. The things that God gives each one of us, not ever apparent. Less than wasted. At work in the dessication of those who should have been under life-long protection. Fitting into a television/movie manner of man has become primary nature.
Hiding the activities – the constant circumnavigation of each set.
It doesn't take long to feel nothing when you are touched. You can walk away, clothed in righteous victimhood, if the trauma has only been meted out only one, two, or maybe even three times. Shock is only the period when your brain rapidly fires, why, why, why. When shock is gone, the brain goes to sleep. A punch is no different than a caress and a kiss is less welcome than a knife to the throat.
I miss the dark. When I was vertical greeting the dawn.
Competition? Not in an open market with desperate customers and dangerous purveyors. Jonesing is not exactly a condition that allows for comparison shopping.
Escaping from reality? Reality abounds, encroaches, and contains. Reality, in this arena, becomes a three-piece suit: helmet, handcuffs, and straight-jacket. It binds so tightly that it blocks a clear vision. You cannot see that you are smart, pretty, or funny. You are prevented from knowing specialness of life – your life. You cannot hear the majesty of everything which is I Love You. Your ears are blocked. The never-ending night is neither flimsy or fragile, its' construction is ignorant of permeation (if that is really a word).
My fellow Americans, you got exactly what you paid for. Everything is utilized to maintain a facsimile of survival. A smile, a kiss, a crime, and even silence – they are all assets that can be liquidated with a quickness. It's all for sale! Nothing is held back! There are no special occasions and evil becomes a routine without interruption.
Not so much the money. If the money meant so much it wouldn't be so easily tossed into the commode. What values are most important? The need to be seen and simultaneously envied. The need to disrupt. The need to gain attention through dress, adornment, communication. This forces attention and the external to the community the desired goal is to create fear or just plain old shock. Inside the community the goal is to have a life that is not only seen but envied. Envy is the precursor to respect. There is a need to have someone want their life. Even when they are not particularly attached to their life. They are clearly the sons of Ellison, McKay and Wright. They have been institutionally inculcated toward concupiscence and have become no more than sex toys who donate DNA to their female counter-parts or sexual toddlers to their mates. Combustible at the slightest incursion; error is synonymous with blindness (they didn't see) which too often culminates into a final lesson regarding fatality.
Regret. It is the ability to know that there has been a loss or a missed opportunity. But what if you have never been acquainted with either?
Where are we? We're here. At the bottom – where you always needed us to be.
And now, hell is once again a home for folks who reside where chickens wear britches. Yes. You voted for the laws, the cells, and all of the accoutrement which would assist in the accomplishment of fates. But you really didn't care about crime or lawlessness. All you cared about was containing "them." Never knowing or even dreaming that a home brew was bubbling for your "us." This time, there's no gallant tales of robbing hoods from Chicago or New York to lull your starving bellies to sleep. It's true. The New York Times has already dropped a dime. It says, "The Niggers are not going to jail. The Crackers are going to jail (see pages two through five – remember to cite the appropriate edition)." You done done it now. At least the brothers and sisters went crazy over an historically unaccepted and kinda-sorta naturally occurring narcotic. Bubba and Daisy Mae? Flipped the family farm for a chemical concoction much better suited for clearing out drains or blowing up buildings (everyday occurrence in God's country) than obtaining oblivion.
What happens to the rest of them? The ones who either cannot stand or who cannot fake standing the light? They are so consumed by reality that they age at an alarming rate or they are frozen into the weirdest type of ongoing childhood. You can never guess their age – you will miss the mark with great hilarity. Always way too young or way too old. Never ever will you see the inside of the ball park. It is a thing that cannot be done.