The impaired availability of unimpaired learning

Chance is the herald and the king, the pawn being played in the abyss of a game, between the shadows and the dark of our journey. Where there was once light we now find the absence – a reminder of the needed and the wanted, a silhouette of memory. Chance then reigns supreme. Without key advisors or the investment of mutual trust it surveys the land and deems itself righteous, correct and divine. The skills we wield alongside our stubborn nature of self-confidence are hammered blunt on the process of fate; either denied or acknowledges. None of us – rather, neither of us; you and I – condemn or condone the actions of ourselves in the prevalent search for that agnostic superiority, the god-hood within and without the humanity that we encompass. Merely the search remains. The everlasting and unguided rampant growth of our inner esteem, forever presented outward in streams and avalanches of word and thought.

The inconsequential desire – free from free form and structure – sails the oceans between consciousness and learning; the animalistic intake of implied and applied living through cellular reminiscence. Unaware of the currents we sing jolly songs aboard the ship that takes us away from home, farther and further into uncharted waters; where the surface is but the portrait of our fears, broken by waves and the undercurrent of disability as of yet unfound.

Yet, for all the impaired, obstructed knowledge not uncovered within the excavation of our lives, we seek to be guided by those doors most tightly closed. Where the barriers formed by the ones behind the doors dictate the entry, instead of the keys we have been giving in payment for services rendered. The locks creak and bend, but open not to what we expected in our folly; the metal twists and shows merely the reflection of a hint; a clue for the treasure hunt. Agony comes as agony goes; betraying ourselves with the knife we handed it in the bitter realisation this was, in fact, our choice. In having given away the door and the lock, and in having helped build the barriers to infect the passages with the slow-creeping sensation of time, we cast down our own ability for unimpaired learning.

The door is broken, the lock stuck, and the key bent. Our feet sag and sink into the quicksand of despair while our wails of self-pity echo through the hallways, reflected time and again off the rusted walls of our minds. Stagnation becomes chance; a final and overwhelming ruler giggling in the corners of our being.

Wonder then, with yourself – as you and I are but shadows, painted on the walls by a well-lit hand – why we gave away the keys. To lock up and secure the knowledge in trade and bargain, to attain that most elusive of forms of wealth; the misunderstood forms of understanding within respected behaviour. With all the treasure barred from discovery, hindrance becomes the name we take, an obstruction to ourselves in the shadows of ignorance. Oh, the merit and gain we could achieve with only a functioning key. What foolishness led us to believe we were that very chance – that ruler without guide or tutelage, without a stake in its own fated path – and seek out to regain what was lost to paradise?

In the stead of sharing, providing or freely giving or learning, we sought only to buy and sell our way into the minds of others. No longer is there the unimpaired availability; instead we must seek ever harder and ever more to find what should be at the heart of uncorrupted information. The tides twist and twirl while our eyes and brains are assailed with the opinion and false prophets of misleading. Through filtering and wanton choice we become the bias-obese spectacle of deranged shouts and screams so fervently portrayed as caring. Gone is the objective reasoning of logic or the collocated verse in the middle of a play that explains to us the causality of flaw; we have become chance.

We have become chance, without tool or knowledge, without the intent to harbour doubt or scrutiny, we feed off the cycle of ignorance and regurgitate our so-called knowledge, fearing to uncover our own belief in lie and deceit. As the voices of the many rise from the pits of faecal-infused media, the few are drowned out in the accusations of paranoia, distrust and intellectual sadism.

Higher and higher, louder and more, the voices call out for their truth to be heard, feasting on the vomit of pre-packed and easily digested matter; fearing the prescience slowly dying, fearing the work required to allocate their brains towards a point of truth.

We have become chance. Chance has become denial. In the downfall of our own quest for knowledge – more, faster, easier – we have usurped our own minds into the complacent and loud-mouthed annoyance, no longer able to live with our own ignorance; no longer able to escape it.

A redefined narrative of secluded security

It was never a problem of wanting, of needing or using. The use and abuse of our own merits and desires; that dumbfound and relentless filling of empty spaces, between the lines and between our thoughts, with an ever-growing sentimental attachment to the visually pleasing arranged events, shaped in concordance with research and market-based extrapolations. Rather, it was the clipping of our own wings, wielding the shears and scissors like a child, filled with the summer of thoughts, running across the threshold of parental guidance, stumbling into the infinite assembly of realities and possibilities.

There was no doubt to be had or found – nor the absence of surprise – when in fateful ploughing, the needle-point accurate puncture wounds did not draw blood, but the crayon-rich essences of dreams; a childlike drawing of outdated values that ran headfirst into the torment of tears, smudging the lines and rendering colours into a mix of abstraction.

Never before have we bled in such variety of ways, forlorn on a wake and wave, waving goodbye to the ideas and premises we think we should hold on to: a misguided and ill-advised journey into a nostalgia enhanced past where the gold-coloured filters on the cameras shine a perpetual daylight on the remnants of a twisted history. What was torment now becomes torrent, what was agony then becomes now the wanton desire for return. On and on we stack the boxes and ideas, the picture-filled albums of a one-sided armistice ensuring only the rebirth of a rewritten conglomerate of behaviour. On and on we pile on, keeping to keep on, keeping to keep off what little misplaced reality we get fed through the hourglass of our future’s redemption.

The backwards pacing of our desires goes hand in in hand with the silent revolution and the outcry for a downfall unforeseeable. It is no longer the mere discontent with technological progress or the constant state of evolutionary precipitation dousing our inherent values, mingling and mixes the genes of our social structures into a bland and unifying theory of human gravity, instead, it has become that wishful torrent we sought to recreate within a recreational realm guided only by the possibilities of the ever-increasing march of theorised life.

On and on we stack, pile, throw and toss, the boxes and pictures and files, filing ourselves away with the memories. We plunder and ransack the storages of the past, in a rebuttal of the future and the present, holding on to the warped ideological process of repetition. In the olden days, we will say. In the olden days of yore, the days of past and the days of before. Ever onwards into the backwards slide we slip, forgetting that the accessibility of that very past is the paradoxal enigma we seek to deny, the future born into a present day.

It is, then, in this secluded security, we have found ourselves at the helm of our clipped wings, bouncing between the gale and gust of future storm, adhering not to the physical laws our flesh-like cells seek to escape. The narrative of what was once the downfall of the flying human – the winged pride of our own prescient doom in the glaring light of promise – has been rewritten with words of the past, still, forever, attempting to bring the past into the future. What ails, and what we fail to see, is the immaterial nature of the memory we carry on our backs. Lost to us is the misused irony of our materialistic purpose while we drill the young and forgetful into a scolding of memory. Leave never behind, that what was, and is, behind us. Bring forth the battering ram and drums of war as you decide on your present and future with the steps you have taken in the past. Take hold of the golden and lapis lazuli sceptre of Pharaoh and guide yesteryear’s sun into a new dawn. Bring with you the backpack of misinformed items and memorabilia that will teach you the ways of our past, hold fast to the mast as the sirens sing a song of mistakes and failure, but never again let go of the self-inflicted slavery to the commercial ark you sail.

Is it not this very idea, this very purpose we have given ourselves in a retribution-filled desire to remember, that slows us down? Should we not seek to remember the memory of remembrance outside of the realm of currency and trade, outside of the materialistic desires and needs we have been feeding ourselves, the sickly need to fill a void reserved for memory and guidance with the abomination that is ownership?

To forget a step has been taken, is to gain the ability to choose again. The wars of whatever past we choose to remember should, per chance, serve as the reminder of our wrong doing, our folly, yet never as the barrier between true progress and the possibility of a better outcome. Whereas the definition of insanity has been flung into the air of interchangeable media and set aboard the train of common knowledge, we have chosen to forget that it is this definition, and it’s dire consequential evolution into misuse, is what sets us free to seek the truth behind repetition.

Take, with me, a step forward. Set it down without thought of the last step you have taken, without he follow-up on consequence or lack thereof, merely plant a foot in the soil and observe the consequence. Analyse and interpret, think and react, only to the step at hand, the step taken. Then, when the functions of our inherent over-analytical minds have subsided into the coddled murmur of solitude, retake that step, forgetting all that came before it.

That first step – as fateful yet unhindered as the light would seem to our mortal shells – is the step we have taken to remember. In this state of non-reminiscent memory we have achieved the singular, yet simultaneously plural, goal of adhering to oblivion. The narrative in our minds, our collective socially-restrained and retrained psyche, is now all the past we need on a journey of discovery. There is no longer the need for want or the want for need; neither have a place set on our back during the exploration of foot-stained soils. There is only the memory of our own consequence and the forge of possibilities chained to our heels.

 

The Endless Expansion of a Finite Mind

The limited expanse of our misguided sense of self surfs and serves the deformity amply called pride, as our eyes gaze inward to the oceans that hold our dead. We are neither here nor anywhere, the endless mindset of a finite existence guides us away from whatever shore sure to soar us onto homes and magnitudes of perceived wealth. Beckoning back and forth, ever forward toward the wake found in reflections, in stars and in the endless expansion of ourselves. Yet the sails become a billow of dreams we have strung alongside our hopes and fears, diluted by realities in ever changing forms and formalities. A stretch of the imagined horizon and imagination lost to our coordination exemplifies our loss and losing, drowning deeper within the air we breathe and the lives so we perceive.

There is yet no truth to be held, to be found, nor to be lost to the waves. Our finite mind seeks infinity; drifting without guide, explorers of the world that is within us. The cannons of time fire upon our ending vessels as vassals we become to our own nature of nurtured falsehoods. Welcome to the show: your seats have been reserved. The morning sun will keep you afloat, the air will keep you flying, and the person you have envisioned you should have become will have had no purpose if not for the disgust and distrust equipped by your awaited disguise.

Disparity between – or perchance behind – our iris, the inward stare sought to reflect our intentions, shoots the supernova into our mind, blinding our perception of what is or what could be, replaced by futility and disingenuous creativity so praised and raised to heights climbed before and again. The infinity of the finite mind is then sorely halted on the steps of the kingdom, overlooking the cliffs as we stand with the sea, realizing once again we can’t keep it, we can’t save, but we cannot manage to manage the use of it. Like the novice and the new, the blind and the blinded, we follow the blinding and the misguided, being told on every step of the stairs, stooping lower to lowered standards, that there is nothing more, there shall be no how or why. Bleeding our crimson tears as the knife twists we reveal to ourselves in detail how the knowledge had and has been there, behind the eye, behind the iris, behind the endless expansion of a finite mind.

We have come and come to pass, passing by that which came before and comes again, passed and surpassed by ourselves before long, longing for passage. Transcendence denied; we are what has never been. The guillotine on the second hand snips and bites away pieces of our mind, watching the scattered remnants skitter to the floor in a hurried pattern. Observe with me, with us, the downfall of our greatest triumph that was naught but failure meant to be.

Carved in stone we set aside and abide the rules we never wrote, wrought in creation of flame and fire; our forthcoming damnation and incessant degrees of sanity. Where we are; what we are; who we are; none of us recognizes ourselves or other’s otherworldly overcoming of senseless idiocy. The sycophantic need for diversion within recognition through others, living not a life to be lived but leading a leaden and loaded masquerade, weighing down our own expectations previously still-born into obsolescence.

The mirror we so vehemently claim we hold in front of ourselves shows only the spouted opinions of others as a value of self-worth, obeying our every whim for attention and the indiscretions of misplaced attention. The platitudes of boredom we portray, boring ourselves with borderlines and extremities, propel us further and farther within and without, withholding ourselves from a destined past. Yet still we scream for more; the waters drown and suffocate, filling our bodies with lies and laughter, meaning and purpose equal to the dreams of dirt, guzzling up the snow to replenish our feeling of drowning, only to be able to call out for help again, and again, and again.

There shall be no cries of danger or equality; no surrender into the void that is a finite existence; merely the obsession of a legacy; a legend legendary only to the mind itself. A seat in the dark, a part played; a memory born on the wings of a stone. There has never been more than the dying moment of a finite mind, in an endless expansion of infinity.

The secretion of secrets found in our downward dissipation

In the way we all seek to find and find to seek within a temporal fluctuation in the motivations so often recalled, we found a downward dissipation in the ideals we’ve racketeered into the void between ideas and secrets. In the ever-wandering spiral that swirls like the frowning fractal of facial muscles a swerve of maniacal laughter echoes within the mania that encompasses the forbidden revelations.

We aught not to search for the drive behind every notion of disparity; between the lines unwritten we seek to find the cause and causality of our own inherent behaviour without accounting for the accreditation for our feelings. There shall be no wall we built ourselves to separate a true desire, curtained by a thin veil of social interaction, and the true smokescreen blown out forward from our fears based on adherence.

From dusk until dawn the spoon feeds and feeds and giggles when we regurgitate in an anxious move to step out from under the anvil of a near Oedipal risk: merely the thought of rebellion keeps us swallowing and admitting to ourselves we like the negative attention while the wooden spoon rusts the inside of our intestines and mouth. Teeth have and will rot and our tongue is coarser than the will of iron-clad concrete. We have been bested. No more times into the breach nor one more day onto the beach, poetry in the life of our own envisioned saints has planted the life and knife in our back.

With it, the knife that separated and segmented our already broken back, we wield the fury and the wish of our own mind within the frame we’ve been set upon. Our rebellion started shortly after it ended, a bloody revolt taken place only in the profound sanctity of our victimised mind. We can no longer hold onto our own-found values, a mere state of none-existence has found our brain in its most addled state.

Plant the banner of war, stake a claim to grounds already desecrated by the faeces of our forefathers. All is futile. We merely adhere to lines in the fleeting smoke, a circular jerking motion in the face of futility as we try to exclaim our patriotism within a null-state. Zero times anything still equals zero; the effort has gone to waste and so has our energy of youth in an attempt to set apart our own lives from those around us. We, you, have failed.

Your rebellion has crumbled into the dust and all the fights you think you fought you valiantly were nothing but a bitter depiction of your own uncertainty. Instead, you will find I have won. The sidelines to life have given naught but prosperity in the field of knowledge, and my, our, refusal to blow the horns of war have left us with a kingdom of ashes. The trees and ground set aflame, the ground blasted to glass and the sky scorched into a purple hue of violence. But we stand. We abide.

The ashes have become a home, a refuge within the flames. A storm of dust and flaming particles whirls ourselves into a weathered and withered version of ourselves, stripped of the abundance of youth and the unneeded mental fat that slowed down the thought-processes in our adolescence. We have become the skimpy branch that refuses to break in the sight of the hurricane, underestimated and withdrawn, survivor of the floods of change.

You? You are the fat but hollow trunk that fed it leafs too much of its insides to remain standing in the breeze of our anal excrements. The secretion of secrets pouring from every crack and crevice makes your bark buckle under the weight of a downward dissipation into the nothingness we were born from. Your roots rot and drown in the most your body can no longer support, unable to maintain the upward-bound glory of your shining foliage. No grasses or weeds sprout near the decay of your mental body and soon, soon you will die and end. Your existence comes to a halt, your legacy forgotten, your body decayed.

Our futures are the same, but at this point in fleeting time, we have become the victor of a battle we have yet to fight, a battle fought for us and beyond us.

We have won. Soon we will lose.

A surrender into absolute control

As often found within the designation given to our mind-sets, the feelings and thoughts streaming through a pre-programmed mind, there is a disparity between the real and the desired; a fluctuation so maligned it comes only to surface after the search for a reason behind the curtain that has long since fallen after a show of puppets.

We are neither puppet nor master, the strings have long since melted into puddles filled with reflections of a still sky. Clouds no longer move to adhere to rain’s call, in itself the answer to a desire. It is there the surrender blunders alongside a gutter filled with the indecency and the exposed, a remnant remembering our remains of the past we’ve taken an offence to.
It is neither the surrender nor the loss of control that seems to take hold over the most primal of instincts – those behind and beyond the simple fight or flight – instead we find it to be the gaining of control once that very control has dissipated.

It is not a surrender in the traditional sense of the word, where loss of control instils a form loss itself, chaos takes reign within a mind and the bracing for impact is a gain within a distinct form of a halting force. We can no longer find the emotional instinct often accompanied with a change in the situational control of ourselves and a transient environment. Transcendence holds no grip on a choke-form as escape finds no final form of reprieve within its bounds. In short, there is no grip within an increasing sense of loss but the sense of gain; a surrender into absolute control.

Fond of and found most often in a situation of voluntary surrender to a higher power – one beyond the empty and hollow process of divinity, instead a human force with near overwhelming presence – in the search for corporal escapades to alleviate a sense of drowning. Many such escapes seek to embrace the sense of loss itself in an attempt to gain more control in other aspects of life and living.
The true folly comes within the realisation that the release of control is naught but the release; no control is to be found within the loss of itself. Maintaining control is the paramount idea for the paranoid of mind. Surpassing the allure of surrender we seek to find, within ourselves, a final form of control. One which encompasses our true self, a wish found only in the fictional and improbable; control over those who seek to control us. Whether this control is to be had in forms of consciousness or not, it is an aspect of a wanted life we must attain.

In truth it is not the control that is at the heart of the matters. It is merely the feeling of direction that seems to be missing in the flow of ordinary day and hour. Within these cycles of drudgery there is a need to escape, to find our own form of release to set us apart from the cattle-like minds surrounding us on all planes of existence. This escape in not an option: it is the very essence of our sense of escape, a must-have attainment, atonement, to set us free from other shallow desires.
You might not understand, but this at heart is the nature of such a desire. The feeble of mind and heart have a string of machinations that withhold any form of translucent ideas from forming. That very string is formed of near-forgotten dreams and nightmares, a natural doorstep into a realm of fears and loves which never have been attained; whether this be through a lack of motivation or an external force stopping progress in its rusted tracks.

In a fast-forward focus wave we see then the combination to a lock we haven’t yet gotten. The numbers and combinations blur at the lines, reminiscent of a broken crystal glass held high into the light. The essence of a dream is still clear, the intentions have not changed nor have the desired outcomes transgressed into something new, however, the lines at the edge have become so obscured we no longer remember our plan of approach, or way of holding onto and realising a dream.

Through such an ordeal comes the form of release aforementioned; where the deluded of spirits find their own definition of release and surrender. The lies spread like a wildfire virus through the mind of those who never have sought or wanted a truer form of control, it reaches into an abyss of the mind where data lingers; forever waiting to find a use in their own being.

There within the glass walls of a fortress that has no practical use comes their definition of misguided surrender when applied to our version of true control. It is there the average mind holds onto an idea of companionship with the lost and downtrodden – even those who are in fact neither of those definitions – and attempt to reach out to those who feel not those feelings within them.
Collision comes as it should, within a formed expression as straight as the predator’s look fixed upon its prey. There is no comparison to be found in the adversity of ideals concerning release and control. A gain or loss is neither released nor controlled by the mind that experiences either or both, neither simultaneous nor apart. A switch is flicked into an upright position but the spark that ought to ignite the light is absent in the quelling of fears. The black and red hopes on which we hung our hopes swing gently but fervently in a breeze strong with the smell of dying dreams.

Dreams forgotten or ill begotten, it matters not to the maggot that festers its way through the rotting flesh of a memory whose edges melt into its neighbouring minds. One experiences control and loss as a transient being gracing its way through our semi-corporeal lives while the next sees the experience as the utmost of experiences to be had.
You cannot, nor will not, understand your form of control within loss if there is no measure of the opposite to be had or found in your surroundings. This is the essence of a complaint finding its way into words. Understanding is not a free-form sculpture to which any and all can give a meaning adhering to their own surroundings and minimal understanding; it is the pillar on which a toppled ruin is being rebuilt. It is the very essence of our failure in the campaign to seek relation to those around us whose lives fly by in a fleeting sense of the word.

None of us understand the surrender of control to gain control. Obscured and hidden by a mist of misplaced guidance there is no such thing as control. In the clichéd version of life we can neither experience gaining or losing of control, instead it is, like the idea of time, something that merely is, not to be grasped or understood by our shells of mortal nature.

Click, clack and the time machine zooms back out and we see the very first idea uttered in a paragraph long since unread. The malignant mind which seeks to take over our instinct in the face of control – loss or gain – reels with the possibility of non-understanding the factual presentation so foreign to itself. There is no hold to be had, none to be gained.

You do not understand. Neither do I. None of us grasp the idea behind control. You do not understand, neither do I. You cannot lose control without having control. You cannot gain loss without an idea of what loss brings with it, with itself, and a form of gain. In a translation of ideas you will find, as I have, loss is merely another word, another idea, for gain. You lose something to gain another aspect of yourself; you gain another aspect of yourself to lose yourself in the loss of something long since forgotten.

You do not understand, neither do I.

The malignant memory of social seclusion

Between the sounds of broken promises lies the smallest kernel of truth, infantilised by the internal desire to procure the most desirable outcome for an instinct. Neither nature nor nurture has conquered a foothold in the kingdom of seclusion, forever attempting to reign supreme in the farthest outreaches of the solitary mind.
Within its premise lies the conquistador’s dream, a vague reminiscence of unheralded times. In this stale pit of decrepit fears and anxieties we find the footsteps of one that has gone before. Seclusion in this realm becomes the necessity of unuttered doubts, the essence of survival without understanding. The instinctual feelings of pact-like behaviour redeem themselves in the blood of the unwashed, the unclean and the unborn. What little understanding can be clung to is defiled by the presence of our own mind, the ever-thinking reason that we find perseveres between the lines where no lines were in the first place.

It is there we come across the lonesome. In their state of decay we clearly encompass the unlived and unloved memories of times to come. Times that, in their perverted self-righteousness, have never come to pass. The creation and thought of entire worlds that hold the desires of those who find no utterance in worlds true, whose creation is the only purpose of their being. In that near-perfect life a reflection of loneliness shines bright and fervent. The mirror-image of their souls feels naught but pity for long-lost dreams and desires, hung in public display on black and red ropes.
We then see the interaction of the lonely, an interaction purely based on wanton interaction. A life based on communing with their own unconscious dreams and nightmares. None beckon to their call, none adhere their whale-call on an awkward bandwidth.

These kindred spirits smile the brightest and live the most of normal lives, yet hear no echoing return in their wailing. The void – that malignantly familiar memory of solitude – touches the skin or their heart, and familiarity is its answer.

Escape comes in the form of a faint whisper, the promise of culminating ambiguity, slithering its way towards a misguided goal. Life bends, rips through the fabric of a known state of being, and explains the false premise on which its fettering ideals await. The light at the end of the circular tunnel isn’t bright, it isn’t anything but black upon black, but the paler shade of seclusion harks and we answer. We answer in whispers and screams, equally loud yet unheard.
Somewhere between the first and the last step we manage, if only for a moment, to outrun the ever-returning call of intimate fears. Within the imprint we leave behind our tears to fall onto deaf ears and we are free. No matter the length of the moment, no cause or effect of the unchaining reality within the promise of our desires, in this state of time we are free of self-cast chains. There is no meaning to bliss but this moment in a state of blissful un-feeling.

Reality in a state of mind is the sword wielded by a look, a word, a memory, hacking away at the sudden new-found bliss. Masked, as always, comes a rider onto the stage. The loud whistle of a deadly steel-born force is no warning if a warning was to be had. Disappearance is a game best played by the certain, the confident, those willing to forego the insecurities that feed the many-headed reflection of our promiscuous dreams. The dream we all share, the dream none of us have.

When the flashes of battle subside in a wake of surrender, another hallucination has been added to our collection of dreams to be dreamt in social seclusion. It is the dream that nurtures us, that feeds us in shreds of possibilities and chance. It is the very dream that hollows out our bones and minds with a simultaneous realisation there is no truth within itself. A hollow drug that whispers to our addicted mind of splendour and magnificence, feeding on our addled bodies and brains until the dust we are returning to seems the softest of beds we have yet encountered.

In this dream we live, truly live. Our dreams surpass your wildest realities. Our dreams feed your legends and fairy tales. Our dreams die in succession of each-other, breaking off ever larger pieces of ourselves, so yours might have a base to be built upon.

Neither dreamer nor dream is awake or asleep.

The hypocritical allure of selective blindness

There is no blindness akin to the unseeing portrayed by those with a selective need to criticise the paradigmatic convictions in social environments. Life is as it should be, without human standard which can be applied to it. The incessant versions of complaining inherent to our advancing social structures deem themselves worthy to be flung into existence without warning or merit of review with a mirror.
To counteract the counter argument within acting on arguments, there is a swelling case to be made against the presence of this topic within the explanation. The unbiased version of the presented present and future features the realisation that hypocrisy must be found and, in seemingly healthy manner, addressed in the mirror frame of our own contested social structure: the written and freely shared word.

In the furthering of exploration the various levels of explanation there are but a few levels worthy of their own definition. Bias being the key that unlocks doors but selectively, care must be taken to prevent breaking the lock with the wrong key.
In short; here we conclude upon the settling prejudice found in the nature of most complaints: hypocrisy.

Selective blindness, and its partner is alluring crime; bias, come on your terms and exhibit a growing reluctance to their requested absence. In such an argument is raised against their nature, revealing the underlying ailment shown as a precursor to their existence: the reluctance or sheer unwillingness to learn and adjust.

As an example, we can determine the average within complaints. The forming of an opinion on the matter of a subject we seek personal relevance to and the subsequent voicing or wording of said opinion in the form of a complaint. While in theory being nothing but the logically expected result of the clash of opinions, elevation to the realm of bias can be easily found in the sociological aftermath.
In specifics this winds down to the birth of selective blindness. Once on the devout path of seeking out the flaw within the subject of our initial opinionated outlet we see the creeping in of a feeling that surpasses simple blindness. The blindfold wrings itself closer to our eyes as we seek out our own failure to forgive the imagined trespassing of the aforementioned subject. We are no longer reluctant, instead we have progressed into the realms of leading the blind without eyes to see our own actions.
Our fated results are clear in the mirror but our blinded eyes register naught but our self-righteous zealotry to convince our surroundings of the basic need in our devolved state of being; the heightened senses clinging to social approval.
A cure presents itself through the eyes of others when merging with the disappointed release of our virtual state of sinning. The mirror presented to us is fully ornate yet functional beyond compare. Late as it always seems to come, realisation hangs still in the stale air when our eyes are forced to play catch-up with our subconscious truth.
Preventing the cure would be the ideal way of curing, like the paradox that confuses yet explains. An adjustment of our field of vision on a daily basis becomes the basic ingredient of social survival, a prevention of biased stagnation to end the encroaching hypocrisy sneaking in through the cracks of our internal mirror.

Freedom of speech comes at the price of having to know the consequences we craft in a furnace of blindness in an attempt to prevent our preciously asinine skin becoming burned by another wielding the same hammer.

An intermission of self-explanatory torment

The fight continues; not as some gross close-up of flailing limbs, but as the calm and steady distanced cloud in an almost clear sky. The vague sounds of battle and carnage filter out into the background as our eyes focus on the speed of occurrences. The clash of flesh and bone serves as the intermediary between our world and the world we thought we would encompass. For a moment, a relapse into the memory of our genetic coding, it feels like we missed our stop. The train sped up as we tried in vain to get off at a stop that would allow us the choice, the freedom of choice, to see which direction we would be going. But forced as we were, we stayed on and rode it to a point we’ve never seen or been to before.

The predictability in our confusion is palpable; the air is thick with our surprise as the station we disembark in feels strange. The tiles hold a different colour, the streets a different sound. Birds fly in awkward patterns as our gaze explores the ever distant horizon. A coppery taste of distrust enters our mouth as our biologically programmed systems try to ascertain the quality of the air. The train has since left us here, stranded in a foreign land still known somehow. Its hollow sounds can be heard down the track, railing away to yet another destination not meant for us.
We are here because we are. Because we are meant to be here. We’ve grown to this point while riding a course we had no control over, yet our minds scream in the sheer agony of not knowing within the realm of knowing. Knowledge is the herald we’ve brought in our arms, finding our stature to hold onto while asking questions we know the answer to.

It wasn’t the question, nor the answer, that drove us here. The train was a vessel we procured in order to be able to look back on looking back. That ever outward distance we call the past, realising only at some point we visited it before. The logical answer in our minds has been denied. This is new, this is not the way we set out to find or follow. It is merely the path we’ve crossed on our way to becoming what we set out to be.

With a reeling mind, teeming with the possibilities of an unsure future and yet, still, looking back on the present, our first step shall be our last. The way is clear and the way is the present. Our past matters not and our future doesn’t yet exist. With the tenures of strained muscles we set in motion the first stride into more predictable surprises. Our reactions, our emotions, the very core of what everything around us tells us makes the collective humankind human, seem unnecessary as we divulge into a singular muscle motion.
All that rides on this step, all future and past possibilities fade into a consciousness of being aware. The choices we are yet to make and the ones we are yet to have made, naught it seems carries the same plural-enforced weight of this motion. The parts we are at now, the air and the birds, the slight waving in the trees and the soothing, yet slightly new, rustle of leafs is what perpetuates our choice. Stay or go. Predictability of the self-explanatory torment of a new intermission in life.

The stagnation of our muscle-bound movement reaches a new spark of influence as our foot plants itself on the foreign soil. What before was strange and unknown becomes familiar and seems to have a taste of something we’ve known our whole lives. The uncertainty of prediction, the probability of our demise, fades into the background. It has become all we have known, and all we will ever know, in the span of a minute moment.
It is this very moment that defines our past, not yet our present. The boundaries have been set, too far off yet too close. This is what we have become. You, I, and you. We are, this moment, in this single step towards infinity, the predicted path we never thought we would walk. Our steps trespass on our own ideas of what we were supposed to be. Alienated by each other and ourselves we move on.

And this is, truthfully, the reality we must face like the dawning bright light of a sunrise denied. There is no other path available to us than the one heralding what we’ve become. Neither future nor present will allow us to reconcile with our past, it is merely the yellow brick road that leads to what was once home. The door was slammed shut and the alarms set with a code we’ve lost to the realms of other things we’ve never known.

It is this realisation of reality that forces us into a stability of personality. We are, aren’t we? All the previously sought-for dimensions and possibilities never harnessed such pyrogenic potential or who we were to be. Recognition isn’t within the scope of sight as all we can cling to us what we ever were.

The change frightens us; it is the torment that has been inflicted upon us without our permission. We change and evolve, followed by a rupture of more change. We never thought this was the person we would see ourselves become. It wasn’t planned this way; even though we weren’t the ones laying out the plans for future instigation.
For the sake of clarity, of sanity and the demise of confusion, we seek to harness ourselves within who we are now. New ideals, new emotions, new bodies. Like a mathematical equation we differentiate between what our own expectations told us and what the future is showing us. What of the ideals, the ideas, the idealistic property and the ideal person? We are no longer any of those.

It is but the passing of time that grants us the ability to choose and compare. Albeit a slight passing, we envelop our own space with a prejudice that whispers to us we are in control, full control, of who we are to become. Denying and ignoring the obvious genetic and nurtured markers implanted into us at the youngest of ages, we chose a stride, as future for us while looking deeply into the mirror of wishes. Failure abound as we sail into a personality, a characteristic of change, we never knew we could become.
The unlimited thinking resources put to our disposal have been discarded onto a pile of useless hopes and freed dreams, relinquishing only those points of acceptance we see fit to carry with us. And to what end to we stuff our faces with these misguided ideas of what we will become. Futility is the master whose leash commands our behaviour.

We’ve successfully set foot on new lands. The image behind us doesn’t look like us. It is a faded dream of what we once were. The image in front of us doesn’t recognise the ones looking at it. In the mere lifespan between then and there, it shows us that the possibilities are infinite, but never including the ones we thought an option, a likelihood of ourselves.
Instead, we have become the change we never knew we could be, changing ever into a flurry motion of fight. Between the instinct of survival and the survival of instinct, we chose a path we will not recognise in whatever time holds yet to come.

The intervention in our intermission of torment is but one of temporary predictability, as we set towards a new self, step by step, wondering who it was we once were.

The demobilising scrutiny of repetitive futility

The stampede continues. From the shadows into the light steps forward our gaze on the horizon. Lack of lust and lack of lack set us free within the cage we seek to expand. Ever outward the clouds drift on the thermals of a mental thunderstorm without recoil. The unfinished meal of our cyst – the stream of defied adherence controlled by stigma upon dogma – lingers but a moment before giving in to the battery of pests and plagues.

Slowly a stale mould covers our eyes, filling us with the still-born tools needed for repetitive scrutiny, as we see the world through the eyes of our reflected discontent. Fill up our hearts, fill up our minds, as we linger in the dusk of yet another forgotten embrace, where the fake smiles of our reflections taunt us and show the misery we’ve sought so to gain.
The marching band progresses forward, stepping on the broken cobblestones of regret, while their shapes remind the dim fog of discarded skulls. In our discord with survival we disbanded our goals and sense of reason, only to be found fit to trample our clones; inherently disproportionately mirrored souls on the same path.

As we listen to the Riddler’s song, we lay on the soil with arms folded, denying our very existence of air, venting only our own futility in the demobilisation we have accepted to be our progress. The stagnation sucks off our shoes as the sink-hole furthers itself onto our carapace.

It is within this stagnation we find, we are forced to find, the normality of forsaking progress to bequeath on our bodies the repetitive futility of neighbourly scrutiny. Hung on black and red ropes to show our passionate discontent is our rightful heir; the first-born of our minds swinging from side to side as its feet dance a dance of loss, jerking and kicking, seeking revelation at the end of life.

Lo and behold, the knight wearing a shining armour of conformity dashes forward on a dead steed of pestilence, his lance a beacon of weary dread to elevate us above and beyond. Time passes as time should while the ever-lasting struggle of our dis-portrayed survival scars itself a way through our days. In endless lines we stomp forward, our greatest reward the futility of life and the fertility of an end that is unforeseen. With the promise of uniqueness and beauty we trample the very ideals set for life in order to attain for naught but the self a way of maintaining the boring equilibrium.
Let us stand then, in lines and throngs, to forsake the path set out by forebear and father and linger in the tears of the mother pooling at the feet of her carcass.

In our final revelation we see the dead-end road of our progeny, the gravel path that skitters away in a surge of pebbles as our unsullied feet seek to pay homage to the journey. Gone are our grand dreams of purpose and fate, the light behind our eyes through which we’ve waded and built upon. Instead, we gained the upper hand in a fight with futility, relinquishing ourselves – and our long-lost dreams – to the bathing cold of repetitive pastures.
Great and many are our numbers, the army of fools running with beheaded minds under rotting arms. We stack the books while reading their lines, ever seeking a way over the wall set to loom over us by expectation and promise.

All is futile.

The drudge – sedated by a false sense of security and progress – knows its way through the endless cycle-maze in which the centre and its inherent rewards are subjected to a constant shift. Slaughtered are our entrepreneurial spirits and visions of grandeur, sullied by the footsteps of those willing to sacrifice life in order to live. Forever more the voice in the back of your head whispers of sweet achievements; the useless material things needed to feel secure in a life that is empty. Gather your wealth and procure, procreate, then die wailing with the realisation of a demobilised scrutiny and the repetitive futility you wielded as a tool to end your very existence. Measure the worth of your non-existent state in the things you’ve gathered, the people you met and the endless years you spent in line to reassure yourself and the ones that follow; a reassurance cracked at the seams, broken in all places.

Forsake your dreams. Give in. Give up. Render yourself unto the coma and be sung to by the lullaby hailed on trumpet and banner. You need not escape the drudgery of your monotone life; you have all you need within a moment’s grasp.

Follow us in the footsteps of ourselves and hail a farewell to the indoctrination of schooling and nurture as we cling to the deathly procession march in a moment of rebellion. Slay the dragon in your dreams and find a job; slave away at the endless conformity, looking from day-to-day ever forward to a moment of freedom and wonder about the end of the horizon. See the dragon’s blood fuel your meaningless end as you define yourself, categorised as a sickeningly happy slave and revel in the fecal matter you redeem to be a relationship. Celebrate, feast and marvel in the creation of your offspring as the greatest accomplishment of your worthless lifetime. Tell them of dreams and goals, set them apart from the multitude of fools who were told the same disgusting lies over and over, only to fail at the hand of promise you forced down their throat.
Die miserably, knowing you left no mark, set no precedent, caused no revelation.

As we stand over your corpse singing our praise and uttering words we heard from others, the slow killer that is a thought creeps around in our heads, knowing, gnawing, telling us we have failed to make proud ourselves from a present past. Yet still, all we retain to do is a return to our non-existence, reassuring ourselves our dreams were not meant to be, our freedom an illusion, our goals a worthy sacrifice in order to continue ourselves.

You will not break the cycle. Your dreams will die with you in a festering pool of scrutinised futility, because you, as am I, are the spoils of war, handed down from generation to misanthropic generation, only to adhere to the whispers of those around you. We must die in order to be free; we must end in order to start. Futility prevails.

The prodigious paranoia of solitude

With a fist full of smoke we dance around the bonfire, aloud with the sounds of our own revelling in the fecal matter projected onto the shifting sands. The smoke dissipates but slowly and the burning curtain is lifted off the stage, doused weakly by the tears of our regret.
The paranoia sets in as we rake the dirt again and again, prevailing only to set ablaze our feet with the whisper of blisters, the agony of our diminishing return to the path visited beforehand.

Within the crevasses of our minds we dig for the treasure we lost but never had. We dig in scores, throngs of people hiding behind that falsehood of a shared treasure. As one we reduce ourselves to simple statements of shared misery, seemingly only to alleviate our suffering while pertaining our innermost desire for greed and welfare.
Our nails are broken and the dirt is clawing away at our skin. The worms howl in disbelief as we forcefully relocate their aerated soil.

Moisten your eyes with the agony of realisation that futility rules your every whim. Fall back onto your knees and repent in the sight of your own undoing. Failure, sweet failure, is the name we speak into the wind, the name we give our children as we fill their heads with dreams and possibilities, with demands, regrets, expectations and boundaries.

Failure.

The war-drums of our constipated ideals sound alive in the stale air of our hive. Like drones we hide behind the walls we built, walls of glass, walls of doors. Nothing is private any more, none may hide the slightest facet of their inner self for fear of being rejected. The wrecking ball that tears through our pre-set survival instincts knocks on the door and tells you that you are walking a path that leads to ostracism. The eviction from social paradise once more.
We are our own heresy, uniformly disagreeing to whatever purpose we laid out before our children’s eyes. Demanding our progeny to mix in the values of that proclaimed society as we try so badly to hide ourselves from the prying eyes around us. The solitude we deny the next only to make it our own.

The paranoia grows. We allow ourselves to become digitalised, recorded and processed in the mechanical eye of the beholder; turning around only when we notice we are beset by the eyes of commerce, used for purposes we avoided to recognise. Again it grows as we thrust the ones around us into the mingle, the mix of others, as we expose them to all that we know exists already. Regret is my middle name as I introduce myself once more, as I speak the words imprinted on my digital mortality. The outcome is welded onto the foundations of my own paranoia, my own solitude. My downfall will be the adherence to the things written on my body; a paranoid solitude its reward.

Yet still it is exactly that fear; the solitude and following paranoia, that get us to become ousted, cast out from the ideas and ideals that surround us all. We are told, taught, forced, to interact. For the sake of our sanity. “Being alone is not a good thing; you will not make it out there on your own.”
One cannot see the inherent evils of the hive, the mass, when standing in the centre, participating without a say in things. The bigger issue, the whole puzzle – limited to the parts our mind can encompass – cannot be seen from the middle of things.
The solitude allows you to see, observe, through the distance of a bound will, what direction the storm is shifting in. We continue to dance to what we think are primal rhythms, wielding the fires we worship like the hill tribes and cavemen, unable to see the sinking sand barring down on a course of destruction, shifting our pace and direction with but a grain of sand at a time.

The smallest of crystalline matter moves as we revel in the freedom we worked so hard to get; the lie we desperately need to be able to cope with the dooming reality of our own stupidity. We are only as free as we are told to be, as we are told we are. Nothing more we can ever attain without being told that it is the very pinnacle of freedom; of desire and the way to live. We introduce ourselves to the ways of slavery – both to society and to ourselves – only to be able to rebel against them when the unforeseen consequences finally do catch up with our dance.

We dance hand in hand, toe to toe, and cast the outcast a glance of disinheritance from our utopia of rebellion. We claim ourselves free while hammering the chains around our ankles and eyes. Pay no heed to the lone figure standing on the crest of the dune, overlooking our progress into the sinking soil; it knows not of the freedom we celebrate. It is but one of the misguided ones, lost in its own sense of disagreement.
The worms have grown. Their tunnels devour the cores of planets, their path the clash of tectonic powers. On its back rides the lie we chose not to see. The rider commands and the worm obeys. Failure is the breath we smell before it rends our flesh.

The stranger on the dune has but to turn to face another group. Another rebellion, another set of ideals, so unique they have become exactly like every other one it has seen. In the end, it is only an observer. Change comes where it is begotten.

In its solitude it hears paranoia whisper. It whispers of the cause and the effect. It whispers of prophecy and prodigy. It whispers in screams.