All The Wrong Topics dot com

Days of the wasted.

we all are haunted by our secretive ways, and we have all dealt with these implied fascinations with ourselves, some sheltered representatives of our species live without ever needing to realize themselves from a different perspective at all… Here i sit bereft of open kindness, infected like the rest with a weak aspect of self-preservation, but one that isn’t strong enough to fight off all repugnant proselytizers in the way of finding a destiny at all… in these hazy days of yore at the present, the weekends become a refuge for the lazy cravings that find their tired way to required sleep, but that is not to say that we want to be asleep… all throughout that two day respite, there is no wanted call for activity, but at some point there comes to the infrequent rabidity a pause for more action to be made… whether it is for that food of the gods of the moment that does the trick for sustaining life further, or for the temporary time when the sleeping awake to change the channel away… falling from the conscious format in front of the television medium, few can afford to suppress the flow of random odd bits and bytes launched at the average passive viewer, and the godless television screen corrodes the electrodes of the mind without the proper buffers in place….a safety kill switch perhaps… just sit back, take your medications, and prepare yourself for a walk through the wall of sleep into the land of dreams… too many thoughts for everyone to count on all together, but separately we are able to decipher those small codes arranged in our daily lives, the rituals that feel desecrated if broken… we all seem to need our little spaces of sanctuary in the deepest reaches out there….whether merely to objective jester or the subjective sorcerer manipulating forces of fate to learn the most necessary of lessons life has to offer… the living balance of possible relayed information threads that contradict and cauterize open cuts made by the vicious gossip that penetrates and sinks the ships, the negative torpedoes blasting off from those leaden pants weighing down the two-faced master bait, and those nasty drifting nightmare foes appear as degenerates everywhere in the fading light of day… the sanctity of home becomes a lost cause when the monotonous thrill ride comes close to watering the flowers on your grave, watching your futile family and friends wander outside long enough to introduce themselves, and then the roaring hollow winds coming to fetch your soul… death and dreams are inevitably linked with the emotional world that satisfies as much as it suffers the extremity of humanity to funnel through the warped bottleneck blues with the rest of us, the aliens and the freaks for fun and for pay, but breathing at least until the day is finally done when the sun has left the sky… so mote it be…

Thanks, khet.