(no subject)
Now be careful, you might miss this one.
I see you now. Emeralds and smoke; your fair hair brushing your shoulders. Your smile, although rare and misleading, still devastating when true. I feel you now. The warmth of your touch on my shoulder, and your breath on my neck. Sincerity doesn’t matter at a time like this. We know this won’t last.
The warmth of the flame and the plume of smoke dance entwined. Submitting themselves to one another, with an ultimate sacrifice: both offering to surrender so that the other can triumph.
Triumph: that which cannot succeed without the defeat of another. Triumph like the warmth of a gun barrel, held by the last man in battle. The warmth that lingers until morning.
Ah yes, the morning. All that is left now is the victor, the one who holds the power. And is we know, he who holds power, determines reality.
Reality… an intangible concept, perhaps? The answer locked away within our subconscious. Oh fateful irony! It wasn’t insanity all along! No, instead, just the rule of someone with more authority and time for which to implement.
Now be careful, you might miss this one.
Surely as creatures of conditioning, we can break our patterns. Habits die hard, but they are defeated all the same. Is it not freedom for which we yearn?
Yet there is no freedom. Our shackles bind us tight to the illusions on which our civilisation was founded on: happiness, love, completion; merely fairy tales.
Fairy tales promised to all, achieved by few. Yet still, we submit ourselves. We submit our minds, our bodies and our souls, if only for a taste. The forbidden fruit which exiled God’s children into a world of sin.
Perhaps then, we are not creatures of conditioning after all. More creatures of impulse and passion. Fuelled by a greed to satisfy the emptiness within. Few of our animal instincts remain. We eat when we are not hungry and we drink when we are not thirsty. The hungry ghosts. The morning light takes you, yet the yearning remains.
The mind wanders. It’ll do that to you.
Ah yes, the morning. No evidence, yet no uncertainty that you were here. The strongest of walls could not keep you, and no amount of reactions in your bloodstream could undo what you had done.
Who said a mistake was a regret? I am my mother’s son, and I am your servant. Bound until it kills me; or you; or perhaps even both of us. Alas, probably the former.
You are the combined effort of everyone I have looked down upon. You are the product of a series of chemical imbalances that have now become a necessity to survive; a necessity to be free.
Routine in search for my lucid dream. In search for reality. In search for truth, perhaps, the fairy tale.
You do not disappoint me. Only morning disappoints me, knocking at my door and mocking my mediocrity with abandon. ‘Wake up’ she cries. ‘The wasteland awaits’. But still, it is only a few more hours to wait. I’ll wash the last one down, and then I’ll be back in yours arms. Back to your touch on my shoulder and your breath on my neck.
I see you now. Emeralds and smoke.
I feel you now.
I see you now. Emeralds and smoke; your fair hair brushing your shoulders. Your smile, although rare and misleading, still devastating when true. I feel you now. The warmth of your touch on my shoulder, and your breath on my neck. Sincerity doesn’t matter at a time like this. We know this won’t last.
The warmth of the flame and the plume of smoke dance entwined. Submitting themselves to one another, with an ultimate sacrifice: both offering to surrender so that the other can triumph.
Triumph: that which cannot succeed without the defeat of another. Triumph like the warmth of a gun barrel, held by the last man in battle. The warmth that lingers until morning.
Ah yes, the morning. All that is left now is the victor, the one who holds the power. And is we know, he who holds power, determines reality.
Reality… an intangible concept, perhaps? The answer locked away within our subconscious. Oh fateful irony! It wasn’t insanity all along! No, instead, just the rule of someone with more authority and time for which to implement.
Now be careful, you might miss this one.
Surely as creatures of conditioning, we can break our patterns. Habits die hard, but they are defeated all the same. Is it not freedom for which we yearn?
Yet there is no freedom. Our shackles bind us tight to the illusions on which our civilisation was founded on: happiness, love, completion; merely fairy tales.
Fairy tales promised to all, achieved by few. Yet still, we submit ourselves. We submit our minds, our bodies and our souls, if only for a taste. The forbidden fruit which exiled God’s children into a world of sin.
Perhaps then, we are not creatures of conditioning after all. More creatures of impulse and passion. Fuelled by a greed to satisfy the emptiness within. Few of our animal instincts remain. We eat when we are not hungry and we drink when we are not thirsty. The hungry ghosts. The morning light takes you, yet the yearning remains.
The mind wanders. It’ll do that to you.
Ah yes, the morning. No evidence, yet no uncertainty that you were here. The strongest of walls could not keep you, and no amount of reactions in your bloodstream could undo what you had done.
Who said a mistake was a regret? I am my mother’s son, and I am your servant. Bound until it kills me; or you; or perhaps even both of us. Alas, probably the former.
You are the combined effort of everyone I have looked down upon. You are the product of a series of chemical imbalances that have now become a necessity to survive; a necessity to be free.
Routine in search for my lucid dream. In search for reality. In search for truth, perhaps, the fairy tale.
You do not disappoint me. Only morning disappoints me, knocking at my door and mocking my mediocrity with abandon. ‘Wake up’ she cries. ‘The wasteland awaits’. But still, it is only a few more hours to wait. I’ll wash the last one down, and then I’ll be back in yours arms. Back to your touch on my shoulder and your breath on my neck.
I see you now. Emeralds and smoke.
I feel you now.