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the 13th strikes again…

so Here we are yet again, my tramps and dears alike, the day of days. friday the 13th and no Voorhees in sight. taking my place in the human race without being shy about it, and without the definite affinity with melting objects. the brain drains the pan dry, stepping out into the light, and the flickering display that consciousness has made me imperatively aware of first hand. what is luck, eh?… unlucky in life, unlucky in nearly every other aspect of living, but why the urge to move anyway? sometimes the motion kills remains of aches and seething hatreds that bury themselves under the skin, to stay active makes the blood flow into those warm places. a crutch for the unwary perhaps, but always with the sophisticated tone in ambivalence for reality working towards a progressive end, consistent with an undermined authority. creatures that beckon away from structure and guidance cannot surely have it both ways, a false impression in the safety of humans, and the pull irregardless of caution towards what hurts you. we are the slow children, my friends and enemies, compulsively pulled toward an inevitable conclusion against our wills because of training and fears and guilt. these chains are not real, per say, but they have an ethereal quality that drains the emotional energy from one’s steps upon solid ground. the shell possesses traits to retain the energy acquired, but once a certain level of conditioning occurs, it seems as though the consciousness can become vulnerable to winds of change. the background and the foreground shift into different ideas of perception to emulate an artificial significance. the artifice seen by materialist culture as sacred, but perhaps only in the sense of the Here and now perception of things, we idealize our opportunities to greater and greater expanses that have no regard for our safety. chewing up the bits left over, the machine keeps grinding, relying on our bones and flesh burning for the fuel it craves to succeed. its goal is completely see-through to those with the ‘sight’ and the understanding to know what they are viewing. too many of us go on living without any idea of what it is about, we make our own meanings, but do we care? the doomed will try to convince the passer-by that everything maybe peachy now, but the surface is always a deception, an affectation of the devil. evil and misanthropy, the truth deep in the vast subconscious calamity that we find ourselves confronting again and again from within, and yet when we confront it in its strength some draw away back towards the light without knowing the dark. pioneers are martyred for their golden value in progressing the social extremities, while we view and laugh at their faults and failures, and hold close to our own without an ounce of courage or compassion. that is where death strips us of all our marrow, and confronts our surface tension, straining to pop the bubble surrounding the individual. am i not the pin, reaching to open doors, and moving to distract attention away from the important struggles. each in their turn, the darling motion to keep it all going and in the air, oblivious to the human stain that bleeds from us. wounds and scars, the trembling voice as it catches the wind, breathless and out of hesitation. like a whale, screeching with natural habit, and to plunge straight to the depths underneath it all. the steps make the time take longer, and eating away the scenery, the giant pit of humanity’s peach is revealed. not yet, though, has this come of fruition. a daring forward stance, looking ahead, but always one foot behind the other. carving out hours like fleshy knots in my system, looped about my fingers like a rosary, and my grip is tight and sweaty. the ticking clock bears no witness to the measures it treads lightly upon, it merely moves as programmed, and gauges the atmosphere accordingly right down to the second. trickling down the unassuming stone exterior of this matter like a wash, to change the color and mood, and to dilute the issues in emotions lost.