a new day. time for change.
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I feel like writing something spontaneously in my journal....
The details are so sensual. Whirling about you. White Noise. Song of oblivion. Passionate oblivion. It gets you high. You push away from here, from now to get high. Away. It "transcends". It gets you high, to see the obscure details whirling about you. Power. You feel it. The thief whispers. The thief cackles and coughs and spits. And in the whirling of movement, of passion, of details, its dark hallow voice lulls you into agreement, into resonance with its soul crushing intent, and it sounds so beautiful. It is a thief. It seeks power and dominion, but not love. It seeks to take away from you, whether you had anything to begin with or not. In the image and simillitude of its maker. Jealous. It steals your life force, and with it, makes a mask. And you, in your loss, look at this masked thief and see its beauty, and desire it. You see its greatness. You feel drawn to it, not realizing you are drawn to what is has stolen from you and wears about it like a garment. And you in your loss, stare in admiration of its fine robe. You begin to feel a connection with this thief, not realizing that it is the longing for what is yours.
What have you done with your map?
Look about you.
Where are you now?
You are in prison, staring at a television.
The architecture of compulsion.
Details. The sensuous details.
In the corner of a prison. Staring.
And yet you are running.
Running from here. Running from now.
"It is easier to drive a car, when you are in it."
But of course, perhaps, I am interupting your show.
Pushing away. Believing in nothing.
Getting high off the vapor.
Volatile.
Peeling away. Believing in no feeling.
Getting high to fill in the emptiness, where your life force once ran like an endless spring.
Yes, you have become volatile. Like a gas. Thought forms that fill the shape of your thief's creation.
Running Away. Believing in nothing.
Not even me, not this thief, not this jail.
After all, you think, how could they be, if the source of all things is nothing? And in your cinicism, my face becomes a lie to you, and you smirk as you tear your map to pieces. With each tear, a rush of orgasmic pain follows.
Details. Fragments. You see freedom in fragments. Nothingness. To you, that which destroys, is that which frees.
And I say to you.
"What can come of nothing?"
All things come from somewhere, from something, from someone, even if this someone is that which should not be defined, is beyond definition. You have mistaken beyond definition for nothingness, and in doing so have lost your connection to that which is beyond this jail cell, and this television set in front of you.
These prision guards, these fallen thought forms of false liberation forming the architecutre of your prison,these fallen thought forms that keep you clinging to the hands of your thief as if it is your savior, have already lost. They will be purged and chased away, and it is your choice to be their battery or not. But there you lie, enraptured in the counterfeiting spirit.
Stop running and face here and now. Bring down awareness and feeling, like a transmuting flame, to that which is here and now. Take back your power. We all come from somewhere. For some, forgetfullness is a thinner veil than for others. As above, so below. The struggle continues. And it is your choice.
But of course, I am interrupting your favorite tv show. And, huddled in the corner of your cell, you seem quite occupied.
I wish you better things than this.
---------
I am reading a great book...
Ear Drumming - Mantic Animistic musings on Metaphors, Mythos, Metaphonics and the Trance State
by Z'Ev
also reccomend to any percussionist...
Rhtyhmajik
by Z'Ev
http://www.rhythmajik.com
There are some other good links on my temporary page at http://www.alhim.com/
---------
Put up a few new low quality images in the pics section.
---------
I feel like writing something spontaneously in my journal....
The details are so sensual. Whirling about you. White Noise. Song of oblivion. Passionate oblivion. It gets you high. You push away from here, from now to get high. Away. It "transcends". It gets you high, to see the obscure details whirling about you. Power. You feel it. The thief whispers. The thief cackles and coughs and spits. And in the whirling of movement, of passion, of details, its dark hallow voice lulls you into agreement, into resonance with its soul crushing intent, and it sounds so beautiful. It is a thief. It seeks power and dominion, but not love. It seeks to take away from you, whether you had anything to begin with or not. In the image and simillitude of its maker. Jealous. It steals your life force, and with it, makes a mask. And you, in your loss, look at this masked thief and see its beauty, and desire it. You see its greatness. You feel drawn to it, not realizing you are drawn to what is has stolen from you and wears about it like a garment. And you in your loss, stare in admiration of its fine robe. You begin to feel a connection with this thief, not realizing that it is the longing for what is yours.
What have you done with your map?
Look about you.
Where are you now?
You are in prison, staring at a television.
The architecture of compulsion.
Details. The sensuous details.
In the corner of a prison. Staring.
And yet you are running.
Running from here. Running from now.
"It is easier to drive a car, when you are in it."
But of course, perhaps, I am interupting your show.
Pushing away. Believing in nothing.
Getting high off the vapor.
Volatile.
Peeling away. Believing in no feeling.
Getting high to fill in the emptiness, where your life force once ran like an endless spring.
Yes, you have become volatile. Like a gas. Thought forms that fill the shape of your thief's creation.
Running Away. Believing in nothing.
Not even me, not this thief, not this jail.
After all, you think, how could they be, if the source of all things is nothing? And in your cinicism, my face becomes a lie to you, and you smirk as you tear your map to pieces. With each tear, a rush of orgasmic pain follows.
Details. Fragments. You see freedom in fragments. Nothingness. To you, that which destroys, is that which frees.
And I say to you.
"What can come of nothing?"
All things come from somewhere, from something, from someone, even if this someone is that which should not be defined, is beyond definition. You have mistaken beyond definition for nothingness, and in doing so have lost your connection to that which is beyond this jail cell, and this television set in front of you.
These prision guards, these fallen thought forms of false liberation forming the architecutre of your prison,these fallen thought forms that keep you clinging to the hands of your thief as if it is your savior, have already lost. They will be purged and chased away, and it is your choice to be their battery or not. But there you lie, enraptured in the counterfeiting spirit.
Stop running and face here and now. Bring down awareness and feeling, like a transmuting flame, to that which is here and now. Take back your power. We all come from somewhere. For some, forgetfullness is a thinner veil than for others. As above, so below. The struggle continues. And it is your choice.
But of course, I am interrupting your favorite tv show. And, huddled in the corner of your cell, you seem quite occupied.
I wish you better things than this.
---------
I am reading a great book...
Ear Drumming - Mantic Animistic musings on Metaphors, Mythos, Metaphonics and the Trance State
by Z'Ev
also reccomend to any percussionist...
Rhtyhmajik
by Z'Ev
http://www.rhythmajik.com
There are some other good links on my temporary page at http://www.alhim.com/
---------
Put up a few new low quality images in the pics section.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
~kealli