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Playing Games of Negentropy.

i throw all my socks into one basket with all the other middle-of-the-road clothes i wear in my day-to-day affairs, but how do i deal with my own baggage/ garbage?… the frustration of having to make peace with myself from the inside while really misunderstanding those who have a vested interest in whether i agree or disagree in the current state of things as they are, a piece of the resistance that moves within my Self whether i like it or not, but this is the challenge presented to me Here that i must learn to pick up on without flinching when the insults are reigning like bullets overhead… whizzing by without too much cognizant recognition of meaning or the impressions left by the righted wrongs singing singeing ballads that scream for blood and pain in sacrificial haze as a burnt offering of human experience upon this living altar i am become, there are differences between you and i that are each difficult in their own right to fathom when nobody ever feels as though they are on the same page as the rest of this humanity, but the paranoid and tinted blinders do not have to last even this brief lifetime witnessed as a forever perhaps if only from our situationist roots as beings stuck in gilded scenes that try in vain to repress the acceptance of one’s roles within the grand theater of the absurd abstracted to burn the flagging will of individual in light of the pack mentality… to whom should i give my excess baggage to?… the stink of the ribald humors drifting under the nose of the indifferent sloven beast who cares not for the destiny of compassion among friends, the civilized demeanor among enemies who hear the voices of hatred so easily as to be distracted into animal fury the likes of which there are no breaks through the berserker mode until after the fact has been bent, and then there are no kind words on the way back because resolution comes at an obnoxious price… speaking before thinking is the curse, acting prior to understanding what the case is NOT, and i give these electric viral stains on your sweated and seeping sores… it is this bizarre inanity that keeps the cyclical aroma of intelligence going strong, and even when it is severely wrong somewhere at the heart of it, we may still allow ourselves to see the best of the worst when confronted with our own failings that tries to prove us a part of the animal surge into ignorant darkness… a realistic age of dreams comes to fruition when least expected by the denizens of this plane that glides through the clouds of particulate matter made humanity by personal scheme personalized by the natural machine churning out copies endlessly, but wings are the last things discovered by the caterpillar who has convinced itself that the cold ground is all it needs, when soaring through time and space are the capable realms of movement for the conscious creatures we are while trapped Here… where are we when we least expected it to be real?… sometimes we find ourselves sitting in a chair somewhere in the places we seem familiar with since childhood, that sense of nostalgia echoing in the memory banks years after the ritual abuse of schooling has died down, and then perhaps the rebellious aspects are well-taken care of in this careless world where monsters and the mingling manipulators dive head first into the fear of eating from the dumpster where still-good meals reside… kicked aside by the urge for perceived freshness in the depths, the filth is home as much as the clean gods who eat the soul in exchange for a mighty leap of faith to escape the fascist and deranged desires that force us to hoard guiltily the source of our shared fantasy that requires us to make real what it tells our subconscious drives to do right the first time this time around, but what do i know of sickness?… the cure is no where in sight but inside…

Thanks, khet.