Maybe it's all the trees I've burned over the years, or the experiments with various substances, but I feel like I'm on the cusp of losing control. I put up a white flag to advertise no ill intentions, but in my enthusiasm, my perspective is perceived threatening and I'm shot down with my hands in the air. But, tis the way the dual works, one victor, one left to remember how it felt doubled over, clinching stomach, gritting teeth. And my conscience keeps whispering, it's just the natural selection weeding out the weaker stems. Some roots were made to reach deep into the soil; some were made to be torn from the ground, as the loose dirt foundation clearly confirms. Adjusting to the fact that nothing will ever develop as I imagine, I choose ideas of grandeur and over-estimate the catastrophe of my actions, so when disaster strikes I can sit back, comfortably, and sip my gin and slip away before those crooked pointers come out. Like some social freak, I walk through the corridors of this university and indulge a lifetime in a matter of moments, spent with each pretty face that passes by. And I don't mind that there is nothing substantial between us because when it comes down to it, all things of substance can be broken down and dissolved to reveal the same monotonous details holding every day together by stitches. How quickly memory becomes soluble in the infinite folds of our brain. How fragile, this window of recollection, and how easily have good gestures been interpreted as threatening or invasive. I swear I don't live in a mental institute, so why must things be other than they seem? I'm under no influence but the utter necessity to hold onto things that I know once made me happy. A content, little delusion if you ask me. Now confirmed. Once you've felt that sting of adrenaline from the first time, it doesn't get any better, so you might as well try to experience as much as possible so you won't be reminded of what is lost to things you cannot control. There is no ultimate timeline establishing or promising anything save disappointment, simply because expectation is exclusive to no one, nor does it owe anyone any type of explanation to its chosen warpath. Under this reconnaissance of remembered culture and habit, we toil and teeter with fantastic notions of purity, faith, repetition as if in any way will the past bring us redemption or salvation to things we will inevitably do, and do to others, in the future. Neither stratagem nor addendum is impervious to free will and spontaneous augmentation, as no idea is verbalized as it is conjured in thought. And a curse of inarticularity always strikes when you're in the spotlight. Have you ever written something seven different times because the first six drafts didn't sound like what you would have said given the opportunity? If so, you have a little insight as to how my mind works. If you've never had the luxury of a stubborn conscience then you live in your own mind and most likely can't communicate with those around you. fuck. I'm searching for some wisdom in this rant and all I can think about is how bad I have to take a shit, and how pissed off I am that I've been cut off from the past again. Maybe it was a facade, or an illusion. I mean, for nostalgia's sake, how do I know I didn't hallucinate that message. For that matter, how do I know I ever really woke up from that nightmare when I felt my soul leave my sleeping body.
"bitch, what the fuck is a ripple?"
