There is nothing to prove and nowhere to go.
In a sense this continuous flow of life shudders like the leaf of a dancing tree swaying with the breeze at a far distant point.
The eyes reflect these patterns in shades of light and deep shadows.
Green and blue are more than just hues and halos.
Thoughts are constantly pouring inside our heads.
We have thoughts spilling over the walls of this place.
Sometimes we are big and sometimes we are small.
Sometimes we are all alone and sometimes we are all.
We are everything, when at the same time we are nothing at all.
Deep down inside we are just empty space.
At the level of our brief surface we are just a changing face.
If we breathe right we understand the folly of moving so quickly.
If only we understand that we have all the time to modify the space around us - shape it into a self assembling cast of liquid zeal.
After all, the muse has left us for some half-pence writer and there is nothing you are going to able to do about it.
By now she must have turned his insides out of his mind and made him succumb to the love that was hiding mysteriously behind some cluttered curtain of ambiguous fates.
Do you feel the orgasmic flood of thoughts trickling through the roof of impossible limitations?
The barbaric destruction of mental fluctuations, curbed by revolutions of orchestrated insights??
Do you?
The oscillating balance remains from our past into the present.
It has prevailed in the curves of the leaves, shades of the woods, and the squares of buildings towering boldly over our oblivious observations like howling machines of wood and mud.
Surely the proximity of everything from everything else is infinite.
At a very minute level what are we really?
To the very last detail what is everything?
The combination of water and fuel makes rainbows of exploding hues in the puddles of caustic rain in a barren future possibility.
The moon has shattered and come too close to the windows by which our great grandchildren will sleep in uneasy confusion.
It is inevitable for any thing that survives to get old.
There is an amnesic insomnia approaching our aging memory.
We are all falling for a puzzling paradigm, which is lurking behind our pointless collusion.
Amongst the multitude our individual voice is just a whisper, a set of words, dialects, tones, and patterns.
Our creations, our dreams, our futures, and our pasts are all neatly embedded with our fears, hopes and frustrations, packed in a hollow collection of boxes with doors, windows, and cubicles.
Our train of thoughts is interrupted only by the commercials of rollover minutes and bandwidths fusing us deeply into a forest of information that we are all contributing to relentlessly -
-every moment.
The disorder and uncertainty that is building up in the background is quiet and formidable. Don't look too soon, you might lose your mind!
In a sense this continuous flow of life shudders like the leaf of a dancing tree swaying with the breeze at a far distant point.
The eyes reflect these patterns in shades of light and deep shadows.
Green and blue are more than just hues and halos.
Thoughts are constantly pouring inside our heads.
We have thoughts spilling over the walls of this place.
Sometimes we are big and sometimes we are small.
Sometimes we are all alone and sometimes we are all.
We are everything, when at the same time we are nothing at all.
Deep down inside we are just empty space.
At the level of our brief surface we are just a changing face.
If we breathe right we understand the folly of moving so quickly.
If only we understand that we have all the time to modify the space around us - shape it into a self assembling cast of liquid zeal.
After all, the muse has left us for some half-pence writer and there is nothing you are going to able to do about it.
By now she must have turned his insides out of his mind and made him succumb to the love that was hiding mysteriously behind some cluttered curtain of ambiguous fates.
Do you feel the orgasmic flood of thoughts trickling through the roof of impossible limitations?
The barbaric destruction of mental fluctuations, curbed by revolutions of orchestrated insights??
Do you?
The oscillating balance remains from our past into the present.
It has prevailed in the curves of the leaves, shades of the woods, and the squares of buildings towering boldly over our oblivious observations like howling machines of wood and mud.
Surely the proximity of everything from everything else is infinite.
At a very minute level what are we really?
To the very last detail what is everything?
The combination of water and fuel makes rainbows of exploding hues in the puddles of caustic rain in a barren future possibility.
The moon has shattered and come too close to the windows by which our great grandchildren will sleep in uneasy confusion.
It is inevitable for any thing that survives to get old.
There is an amnesic insomnia approaching our aging memory.
We are all falling for a puzzling paradigm, which is lurking behind our pointless collusion.
Amongst the multitude our individual voice is just a whisper, a set of words, dialects, tones, and patterns.
Our creations, our dreams, our futures, and our pasts are all neatly embedded with our fears, hopes and frustrations, packed in a hollow collection of boxes with doors, windows, and cubicles.
Our train of thoughts is interrupted only by the commercials of rollover minutes and bandwidths fusing us deeply into a forest of information that we are all contributing to relentlessly -
-every moment.
The disorder and uncertainty that is building up in the background is quiet and formidable. Don't look too soon, you might lose your mind!
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