(no subject)
Dwelling into the unconscience portions
of my mind have proved unfruitful.
The product of my inquiries weaves its
arm into that of a popular work's.
But it surpasses the urge to submit
to what is already easily available.
No, it is an example of something much farther
than that.
That its influence has somehow marred my thinking,
formed something, perhaps its own child in a sense.
What was I but a vehicle?
Can I literally call it my own?
Am I a thief?
Am I creatively hopeless, bound to the rhythmn of that
same drummer, no matter how I step?
Somebody tell me how I would break free,
how I could dig deeper into that darkness in the back
of all our minds, push away all the sociological elements
that have defined how I speak, step, eat, sleep, and ad infinitum.
Or perhaps maybe all works refer to the great masterpiece that started
such a chain. Homage after homage. The story begins to distort as different
tellers travel from city to city, experience after experience.
What was this great piece? Shakespeare? Is one man capable of such a thing?
Or perhaps we are fooled. Time is but a human device; we have given it a beginning
and an end, but who knows the objective truth after all? We are the fools that listen
to the same story
over
and
over
again.
of my mind have proved unfruitful.
The product of my inquiries weaves its
arm into that of a popular work's.
But it surpasses the urge to submit
to what is already easily available.
No, it is an example of something much farther
than that.
That its influence has somehow marred my thinking,
formed something, perhaps its own child in a sense.
What was I but a vehicle?
Can I literally call it my own?
Am I a thief?
Am I creatively hopeless, bound to the rhythmn of that
same drummer, no matter how I step?
Somebody tell me how I would break free,
how I could dig deeper into that darkness in the back
of all our minds, push away all the sociological elements
that have defined how I speak, step, eat, sleep, and ad infinitum.
Or perhaps maybe all works refer to the great masterpiece that started
such a chain. Homage after homage. The story begins to distort as different
tellers travel from city to city, experience after experience.
What was this great piece? Shakespeare? Is one man capable of such a thing?
Or perhaps we are fooled. Time is but a human device; we have given it a beginning
and an end, but who knows the objective truth after all? We are the fools that listen
to the same story
over
and
over
again.