the squeezing point of pressure even as some aspects of my personality
are not like me… mistakes are the blanket i seem to warm myself with,
the negative reactions coming like white hot explosions of emotional
weight, constrictive and limiting the reasons for growth… feeling as
though the material i waste is really my own, but there is no real way
of knowing how true that is right now, even intuition seems a faulty
system to derive comfort from… but what comfort can i really derive from
the system in place, when a helpless and despondent sensation
overwhelms me, and it seems as though the world is brimming with ???… is
it consequence that seeks me?… the pull hellacious from unfamiliar
territory?… the thoughts and emotions and actions are always
interminably linked in some vital way which propels these ideas forward,
the pursuit of cosmic philosophistry, which would be the composing of
confusing and contrary questions competing for completion… but even that
says nothing except for the self-fulfilling prophesies built from the
bottom up, the primal urgings from the forms surging through the
creative mind space, and ask nothing in return which might mean
something if you are working in reverse… sometimes i feel like my
intuition is fucking with me, but i know even that is purely
psychologic, because there never really is anything to fear except being
afraid itself… it would seem that no man, or woman for that instance,
is an archipelago….but we are links in the chains of that i am certain…
as the ancestral matter gets carried away to the bottom, or perhaps
floating to the top, creamy like a foamy head mocking all serious and
relevant proceedings… this is the mayhem i inject into reality through
my words, the morphemes acting as the morphine to soothe your ills, and
to show you insight from a new and bewildering point of view…
