Lets Get Into Some Trouble.

[lgist]

The Boy & The Gravedigger.

PART 1 

Buried, under layers of indecision, you’ll find me. A graveyard of personalities, tried and lived, they were happy, I think. In this cemetery, it’s quiet, no one to grieve what once was, the tombs decaying, how they come here, to lay, never to be found again, as they’ve served their purpose. Loyal servants, slaves to the exterior, unable to grasp at their strings, I pull so meticulously. 

These puppets, I created, to serve as a shield, how they wither, showing their stitches, their own imperfections. Their look of fear when it’s time to be replaced, yet they know it's their time to go, I envy their conviction, I envy their infinite sleep once I’m done with them. So I lay them down, allow them to rest, like I wish I could. 

I think back to my own creation, my own formation, my own stitches. I can’t remember a time, where I was whole, finite in my own construction. No… instead I'm an amalgamation of different ideas, concepts and people, taking what I like, discarding what I don’t, never quite looking twice to see what I bury, as its purpose to me has ended. 

I know, I’m afraid to die. I know I am somewhere, over there, never quite here. I look towards others, in their own steadiness, towards their own fears, I feel their glares on me, as they look to find what isn’t here, as they try to find me. No, I’ve never let anyone in, for I haven’t looked inside either. Under several layers of dirt, the boy in me has his own grave. 

Instead of a person, I am death, an observer of those who live. I find peace in the quiet fog of the tombs surrounding me. Those who feel, what does it feel like? I can only think, ruminate. Emotions buried alongside the bodies that felt them, for that is how they died, in a burst, in an instant, in a fleeting feeling. 

Yes, these servants, they couldn’t hold my weight. Momentary release comes, as I stab them through the heart, after I’ve thought too long. Useless, meaningless, purposeless. So here I find myself again, another body buried, a new one in creation, a hole already dug for when it’s his time too. He’ll work, for a time, and then he won’t. I suppose I am to blame… I’m sorry. 

I won’t let you see me, in this fog. For the boy has found comfort in the dirt, how he sleeps, how I’ll bear this burden for him, for if he felt what I felt, he would surely crumble, wouldn't he? He won’t fucking answer me, how he sleeps… I want to sleep too, kid. His tomb is the deepest, I wonder if he can hear me, sometimes… 

END OF PART 1

PART 2

Buried under layers of chains, you’ll find me… hidden. I have so much to say, yet my voice is still, choked. I wonder if he can hear me, as I make my desperate pleas for help, how he piles on the dirt, tirelessly. I feel his desperation, to keep me safe, how he toils in his own mind, unable to grasp at the truth before him. 

I feel like a fetus in the womb, that had his development stunted, was it my fault? The world didn’t accept my birth, so here I lay, sleeping, dreaming of a world that does. So I let him take over, to realise what it has to offer, he stood there with a shovel, allowing me to finally rest. The world around me faded away, I was finally left alone, I thought I had learned the secret to happiness. 

Yet there he stood, with his head held low, in this quiet fog. Nothing to hear but his own thoughts, like a broken record, how it repeats, skipping when things get murky, playing so loudly, won’t he just turn the volume down, why must he wallow so deeply. How he implodes, scurrying to make sure I don’t wake up, ensuring I stay cosy, locking a new chain onto my coffin, nailing it shut. 

I haunt him like a ghost, how I make myself appear when he’s at his lowest, how he hesitates to dig me up, how he fears for my well being, uncaring of his own, as he implodes again and again. I grow tired of this tightly shut coffin, I wish to see the world too, as he does. I would trade places with him if I could, how I longed for the day, to be grown, to feel the sun shine freely on my skin, to watch as the night became day and then night again. 

I would want him to rest, as he longs to, how he refuses when he enters the world again, I know his pain, I know it well, afterall I created him, to brunt my burden, how he’s done well, I’m proud of him, he’s taken our body forwards, he’s lived a life worth living, even if he doesn't see it. Still unsure of what his objective is, how he continues to search, looking for a life that will accept me with open arms, how it toils him, when he realises it doesn’t exist. 

Now I hear him digging again, another failed project, perhaps his last. He’s tired… oh so tired… The weight is too heavy to bear anymore. He may just sleep forever now, to release us from this prison, how we both found ourselves in chains, I’m chained to the ground, my head in the sand, he’s chained to the sky, his head in the clouds. 

Before he does, I hope he releases me, so I can taste again, there’s so much I haven’t tried… I wonder what it's like. 

END OF PART 2

PART 3?

[lgist]

Bridges.

Bridges are built everyday. They connect those separated by chasms, deep, perilous chasms. In their construction, they grow exponentially, as the lands between them reach out further and further. What seemed so out of reach yesterday, linked within the blink of an eye. They are used to bring cargo back and forth, a trade begins, what you have I need, what I have you need, in this mutual gain, those from one side populate the other and vice versa. Soon, given enough time, both sides are seen as one, symbiotic in nature, as they provide and bolster for one another. You would call this a golden age, a moment in time where it just worked, where it felt right, wouldn’t you?

Something is brewing within both of the populations linked with a bridge, something unforeseen. Political figures rise, they provoke the citizens, they clamor and roar around an unfound fact, “They are stealing from us!”, “What have they done for us?”, “We don’t need them!”. At first, it was fairly innocuous, slight rumblings in the zeitgeist that is public opinion. We’d look at them like they’re crazy, I’ve got friends on that side, they’re good people, they’re not evil, they’re not selfish… right? 

A shock appeared on the news, I don’t really remember what it was but it left the realm of innocuity, it was something personal. Now, when we cross, we get stares, we get those dirty looks in the eyes of locals. Now, when they cross, I become cautious, I become guarded, the same look in my eye. Those politicians continue to clamor, but now I hear what they are saying, I heed their “warnings”, for if they see me as their enemy, then I am not safe, then they are dangerous. Who can I trust?

Now to visit the other side, everyone must pass through a checkpoint, the cycle of distrust has begun, what was once used to connect has now been turned into control. They’ll check your record, they’ll make sure you serve their interests while you enjoy your stay, if there are blemishes, how easily they’ll send you back, with your head held low, with a grin on their face. Now, when we watch the news, we won’t admit it but we’re waiting, their bad news has become our good news, with their heads held low, with grins on our faces. I hope they get what they deserve… don’t you?

The quiet violence simmers, a remark here, a stone toss there, until it boils and you can hear it from the comfort of your own home. A long queue has boarded the bridge. The people have chosen their sides, as they return to the land they came from. Welcomed home as they are banished as traitors. What was once used to connect, is now used to divide. Those behind the wheels, as they look in their rear view mirror, they can’t help but shed a tear, the lives they’ve built, the things they’ve learned, the people they’ve met… it’s not fair. Yet all they can do is grip the wheel with white knuckles and hope. Did I make the right choice?

The bridge, now empty, decrepit, rusty, is never used again, what’s on the other side, a deep, perilous chasm. A fire is lit, of unknown origin, it starts on one side and travels the entire length, it burns and burns, the years of back and forth, of mutual respect, of symbiotic living, withering away in the flames, neither side bothering to stop it, both sitting on their coasts, a plume of smoke separating them, a final message received, perhaps a lesson learned. Is it over?

People have returned with new customs, new foods, new cultures, new perspectives. Both sides have been forever changed in their demographic makeup. They have taken pieces of each other, incorporated it into their way of life and moved on. What was once a cataclysmic time in history, now memories of those who lived through it, oddly they look back at these times fondly, eventually, gradually, slowly both sides forget about each other. As new generations refute the stories of the past, as they wish to see new sights, as their curiosity gets the better of them, how they’ll reach out… their hands above the ashes of where the bride used to stand. How I wished we looked down, to see the bottom of the chasm we sought to trample. Do we stop them, or will history always be subject to repeat itself? Is this the nature of freedom? Were we free when we weren’t bound to another place? Are we prisoners to our own isolation? I don’t know… Do you?

—---------

The cycle of life on another sleepless night - S

[lgist]

The Merchant and The Vendor.

In a world divided by unspoken boundaries, there’s you. You, who would deem yourself incapable of shining, you, who would cast yourself aside for others so brazenly, so quickly. You’ve got the world to give, yet you’ve taken nothing for yourself, as if a merchant, struggling to make ends meet, how quickly you put yourself up for sale, how easily you disregard your wares. I stopped by, one day, how I saw your jewels shine in the moonlight, how I saw your eyes, sullen, without hope. 

You, who understands, who listens, who speaks. Connected with that which is below and above but never that which is here, within the realm that breathes, within the realm that lives and dies. How I wish you understood your own power, how I wish you didn’t undersell that which is inherently valuable, how I wish you could look past a single vendor and realise it is you who holds the goods, it is you who crafts such excellence into this world, with your hands, with your mind.

May you forever undermine me, may you forever look into the mirror and bestow yourself the power that you think I have given you, for I have only held a mirror to your greatness, for I have only shed light that which you thought was forever sunken in the dark, for I have only revealed the parts that which you never thought you'd see again, that which is inherently you, that which persists in your market. 

I only wish I had the means to buy what you’re selling. I only wish my wallet had been padded with the currency you need. Yet here we are, dazed by our confusions, separated by our differences, yet connected through the essence of who we are, what we represent. Both a blessing and a curse, how we unravel in each other's comfort, how we lament that we cannot give more. The world governed by what ifs? And could haves? How lucky I am, what if I stayed home? Could I have met you? 

So I take it one step at a time, I understand you, who you are and what I mean to you. May you forever hold onto my gratitude, for that is all I have to give, for that is all I can do for you. I wish you could see yourself how I see you, I wish you could see everything you have to give, for it is abundant, for it is invaluable. I wish I could give you everything you’ve ever wanted, yet here I stand, with an empty wallet and my jaw agape, yet here I stand with encouragement, hoping you’ll keep your shop open.

—--------

How we’ll remember these days, how fondly I’ll look back because of you.

Much Love - S

[lgist]

What’s in-between.

As we sit in silence, we ask ourselves, when will it be our turn? Staring at the screen, as the game is being played. We yearn to get behind the wheel, knowing each and every turn ahead, even if we knew we would crash, we would want to drive down the road anyway. Yet, the safety of spectating surrounds us in warmth, like a fire in the middle of a tundra. How this fire wilts, how the snow finds a way back inside, how cold we feel to the touch. Frozen, we watch life pass by, getting used to the cold. We lie, coming up with excuses to stay here, lying in the snow. When the truth comes, when we see a car pass by, when we find ourselves inside of an arcade where there’s no free space, the cold sucks. Bitterness comes, as we ask ourselves, when will it be our turn? Where did it go wrong? At which point did we stop driving? At which point did we stop playing? At which point did we become a spectator?

So we lament, we try to find this moment in time, where everything changed. Struggling to find it, we continue our rhetorical research, for what would we do with the answer? We think, as we think the temperature drops, as we think there’s an empty machine, waiting for you to play it, as we think, a car waits at a green light. Stalled in time, we think, probing our mind for a justifiable answer that does not exist. So we lose trust in ourselves, beckoning our mind to detach from the body, as it has deemed itself above, attempting to delete what’s below. A cycle of self destruction, as the answer never comes, we lose ourselves in the ashes, forgetting what it feels like to burn, forgetting what it feels like to embrace, forgetting what it feels like to feel. Bitterness comes, as we think too much, as we lose ourselves.

As we live frozen in ice, as we die in a million pieces, ashes on the floor. The space in between is unexplored. We go from one extreme to the other, thinking in binary, bleeding black and white, we live one day, die the next. We lie, trying to boil it all down, as if life is anything without the fat. We lie, saying we don’t want to play a pointless game, saying we don’t want to drive when there’s no destination. As if destiny is defined, as if we’re only destined to breathe until we can’t anymore, as if we aren’t born with a blank canvas. Maybe one day we’ll try it, maybe one day we’ll find the space in between life and death. Where we take up a space in the arcade, where the driver seat finds itself empty, where thoughts are nothing more, where we find ourselves again. Allowed to feel, to find sympathy for no one else but yourself, to find compassion for what’s above, to find meaning for what’s below. Maybe one day, we’ll take that step, regardless of the high score we wish to achieve, regardless of where we want to find ourselves at the end of the drive. Maybe we’ll find out the destination has no meaning without the road paved to it. Maybe we'll find out to achieve the high score we need to play the game first.

____________________

Don’t lose yourself.

Much love - S

[lgist]

The River.

Surrounded by it, encompassed by its embrace, fostering a sense of control. Its randomness, forever, its intention clear. How it flows, it starts, it goes, it stops. Only to start again, always beginning again and ending just the same. A river, how we just enter at any given point, diving into its thrashing waters. We pursue, trying to reach the end, only to realise it's not what we want. This current we’ve caught ourselves in, how quickly we can turn from passenger into hostage. As we struggle, we start to drown, the water filling our lungs, punctured by stone, in its silent violence. We try to grab onto something, so we can escape the flow, so we can stand on our two feet again, our fingers wet, we grasp onto something only for it to escape our grasp.

Do we accept the circumstance? Or do we keep struggling? Either way we die, its paradoxical nature confusing us further. As if to say, if it’s meaningless why try? If it’s meaningless do we try harder to find our own meaning? Regardless, we continue, thrashing down the stream. We find floating to be easy, allowing it to run its course, for struggling only leads to more struggle, yet floating only leads to boredom, beckoning us to struggle again. Where to go from here? There are moments, where the stream calms, where the river gives in, it slows down, allowing us to catch a breath, to recuperate, to think, to feel. These moments are fleeting, they come as fast as they go, until we are thrown into a waterfall.

It is here we ask, why did I jump in? Why was I so careless? Regret seeps in, the past mocking you, as you float, as you drown. Yet are you ready for it to end? Are you prepared for the journey to be over? If so, you sink, you give in, you hope to make the same mistake again. If not, how long will it take for it to be over? Can you withstand another rapid current? Will it make you stronger? As you bump against the walls, your skin is covered in bruises. How we appreciate the moments when it slows down, how in these moments we wish to be thrown in again, as if challenging the river to hit you harder. 

One day, you start swimming, the feeling is elating. You become a part of the stream, you begin flowing with its speed. You learn when to slow down, when to speed up, you feel as if you’ve learned to stand once more. Doing so, you reach the end quicker, without realising. Doing so, you’re in the moment, with each stroke pushing you along, with each breath giving you strength to continue. It is here, you’ve learned, that you cannot go against the stream, that it will do as it pleases, with or without you. That it barely even recognises your presence. A speck inside of its overwhelming mass. Your lungs clear, as you begin to understand, as you begin to accept, as you begin to let go. Your bruises are left, to remind you of your comeuppance. Will you be complacent and sink? Will you be accepting and swim? Questions to ask, before you dive in. 

[lgist]

Stumbling into a forest.

To find yourself, in the center of a forest, how’d you get here? How you wandered, aimlessly, with no concern of finding your way back. You enjoyed the walk, it was peaceful, as you listened to every branch crack beneath you, a river flowing in the distance. Descending into this world, so far apart from your own, fascinated by its differences. A story behind every tree, each on their own cycle, as they grow, closer and closer to touching the sky, as they fall, returning to the ground. Perhaps you fell, stumbling across this place, how you took the first opportunity to escape, into this place. The world outside be damned, isolated in this amalgamation of stories. As night falls, you look up, the stars carving their place through the barks, in their unity, they are uniquely pronounced, as they dance, the forest of the sky, you create a branch of your own, reaching upward with an open hand. 

The morning comes again, the sky’s orange hue forcing itself into perspective. You awake, ready to continue your journey, into the unknown, continuing your own cycle. You wander deeper, you feel for a moment, you feel lost, how you push it aside, burying it beneath the dirt, as you continue pressing. Reality here is flaky, it is one day, then it isn't the next, you realise as you turn around, the path looks different, the feeling comes again, out of the dirt, its hand wrapping around your ankle, it’s beckoning you to turn around, to find the road again, you kick it away, refusing to listen to its advice, like a child you feel wronged, for it is this feeling that brought you here, this feeling of aimless wonder, this feeling of directionless apathy, this feeling of being lost. 

The anger seeps in, this place is not as it seems, what was once peaceful has become prison. This forest has bound you and you let it, for it has convinced you the world outside doesn’t have the key for the box you’re already in, the truth, yet the key is also not here. The forest has claimed another story, as you dig your roots into the ground, you once again reach upward, if the key isn’t on the ground it must be in between the dancing stars. So you grow taller, hoping that one day, you’ll be able to snatch it out of their grasp. You spend time here, your close ones have forgotten about you, your passions have been extinguished, your life is now waiting. Perpetual waiting, to see if something out there, will grant you escape from this box you’re in. 

It's funny how we look through the bars, without examining the cell we’re in, do we even try to open the door? How do we know it's locked? Who even put us here in the first place? What are we guilty of? Questions forgotten in the quest for rhetorical answers, questions lost within the swaying of our branches, as they reach higher and higher, reaching for something that doesn’t exist, we are happy to wait for being happy, we are delighted to wait for an answer to a question that doesn’t exist. We look down, another wanderer, stumbling inside, should we warn them of their fate? Or should we wait? Wait for them to become us, wait for them to come to their natural conclusion, that the answers exist outside of themselves.

—-----------------------------------

We are Us.

Much Love - S

[lgist]

Change's Dance.

Snow white, like a blank page, here I lay, waiting. What is it we wait for? The tide to come to its lowest point? The sun to set? The stars to come out? Searching for a sign, to tell you, to yell at you, how it never comes, how the fear sets in, as you wait. Fear holding you down, forcing you to stare, to bear its beautiful imagery. It’s this sinking feeling, we get caught in, buried in snow. The cold covers your skin, the sun, when it rises, can’t reach you. You lie, a thousand times, before you stand once, afraid to let your knees buckle, afraid to stand just to fall again, afraid to leave this blanket of safety, until it's safe. Another lie, this illusion of safety, it’s a veil, washing out the world into ones and zeroes, nuance fleeting, order gleaming. Because out there, it’s chaos, it's unpredictable, it's everything you crave, as you lay here, night after night, playing spot the difference with the night sky, how you lament when nothing changes, Orion's belt is still there, where it was last night. 

Change gracefully dances, it has no time to be set in stone, to be either a one or a zero, black or white, it’s flowing like a river that carves its waterfall out of rock. It's the entropy of change that forces itself upon you, the rock may be still, how change comes for it regardless, using that which is deemed useless, turning it into something useful, it doesn’t discard it however, it recycles. For change is a cycle, one into the other into the next, for it is not you who has changed at the end of it, it is the shape of you. The cycle of change takes that which was jagged, and smoothes it out. It takes that which was the course, and makes it fine. Change always has equivalent exchange, it cannot give what it doesn’t take, how it could take fear and mold it into courage, anger into passion, depression into enlightenment, apathy into love. How it could melt the snow around you, and turn it into water, from which you will flow, but it has non-negotiables, before it gets to work. 

To take change by the hand, you must accept you need it. You must accept that you have failed without it. Like children, how we hide away the results, choosing to ignore their values, until it catches up to us and becomes baggage. Eventually it becomes overweight, so we sit on the airport floor, wondering what to discard and what to keep, unable to decide, we go home, before we fly. Change is patient, like a loving mother, it will accept you, even when you don’t accept its love fully, thinking you have outgrown the nest, and we fail over and over again, wondering why? Why must we keep tripping on our laces? Why must we slip on the climb to the peak of a mountain? Why must this fire be so difficult to keep alight? Because, we failed without accepting it, so we refuse to tie our laces, we refuse to learn how to climb, rather believing that if we keep trying, eventually we’ll get there, we refuse to get more wood for the fire to chew on. The consequence of refusing failure is more failure, quite ironic, but change waits, it watches over you, wondering when you’ll ask for help, as you lay in the snow, a liar, a cheat and a failure.

So you cry, you weep in the cold, your breath heating up, igniting the air around you. You extend your arms, in the numbing cold, extend them to get a hug, to feel embrace, to come to terms with yourself. How change will come, lovingly, to pick you up, to hold you, to tell you “it’s okay”. You cry again, into its shoulder, catharsis, entropy has taken you, you feel like you’re dying, or being reborn, or both, for change must take you, must kill you, to be able to give you life, one more time. Welcome to chaos, it says, it’s neither different or the same, it’s neither everything or nothing, it’s neither zero or one, it’s neither black or white, it’s different and the same, it's everything and nothing, it's zero and one, it’s black and white. It's life, so different from death, where you have stayed for long enough, it’s time to change that. 

—------------------

Much Love - S

[lgist]

Doors.

In front of you stands two doors, behind one, the life you dream of, behind the other, peril. How you can stand there, wilting away, hovering your hand above the knob before quickly retreating, to safety. You’ll linger there, for time, questioning the rationale, comfortable on the other side of risk. “Why, I’ll just stay here” you repeat to yourself, as the safety is overbearing, it whispers lies, its secret in discontent. Your mind races, with possibility, it's naturally curious, it wonders, ponders and creates scenarios. You’re growing bored here, its sanitary outlook washing over any sense of play, the dullness creeping up on you as you forget what color feels like, on your skin, so the mind imagines, it will fill in these blanks, that were so willfully colored for you, with crayons. You’ve run out, the time has come, should you stay or should you go? 

Why must it be so difficult? What brought you here? Which amalgamation of choices has willed you to a clandestine choice, a choice that is only yours. Choice is scary, with an equal opportunity to ruin your life as it does amplify it. We have grown accustomed to choice, we call it preference, I chose vanilla over chocolate, I chose to wake up early this morning, I chose to sleep in. I chose to live, I chose to die, how quickly choice can escalate, from the mundane to life altering, in any sense. Our choices, while they might be our own, affect everything around us, just as the butterfly chose to flap its wings. Who do you love? Why do you love them? What made you love them? Who do you hate? Why do you hate them? What made you hate them?

Choice is blind, it has its own scales, like justice, it must be balanced, for what you seek to gain can equally be lost, according to choice. 

So we hesitate, staring at these doors, knowing what it means to decide to take the first step. Here we are introduced to Choice’s offspring, risk. Risk stems from choice, it is the tranquilizer, how it can strip your movement, and make you a statue. Too nervous to move, too comfortable for the potential of sacrifice. It is here, you’d feel a gentle pat on the back, as it urges you to move. It asks you, do you wish to die here? For that is the third choice, you either walk through door one, door two, or you don’t move, you boil away the rest of it and that’s all you have left, it reminds you. It asks do you fear the unknown more than you fear being stuck? Is this really where you want to die? Have you given the most you can? Have you lived to the fullest, truly, unless you know what waits behind one of these doors? Endless, it's almost tormenting you, mocking your decision to stay here, like a roommate who's sick of your habits and holds an intervention. It is here, life will give you an intervention, it will laugh at you, ridicule you, completely break you, for choosing to stay here. Your mind internalizes this, it believes it, so you become depressed, unable to move, unable to take a step in the right direction, unable to think yourself worthy of moving on. 

Withered away, you’ve become a skeleton, did you die with regrets? Did you die wondering what’s behind those damn doors? Did you die peacefully, with a quiet mind? Did you die with your hand on the knob? Did you decide to move too late? Only you know, or you will know, should you decide to stay here, staring at endless possibilities, literally at your fingertips. A stagnant life is what awaits you here, a pointless existence, where you have nothing to show, where you will be haunted by the decisions you didn’t make, rather than the ones you did. Justified in your comfort, you have successfully thwarted risk, and given the middle finger to choice, now you must pay the price, as you close your eyes in this dark, antiquated, cold room. 

Unknowing of the warmth of winning, unknowing of the bitterness of losing, and of the conclusions these doors had in store for you, both good and bad. I think it’s better knowing, rather than dying in cold comfort, don’t you?

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Felt Inspired.

As always….

Much Love - S

[lgist]

Pendulums

Fossilized in the ground, I feel every tremble. I reach up, to create my own, to be heard again. I fell back down, dug deeper than before, unable to collect my thoughts. Swinging between near victory and total despair, the pendulum that keeps me beneath ground, at varying depths. At times, ready to crack what's above me, to reveal my skin, to point to the sun. Only to sink again, to barely see the beams through the crust. I send an illusion of me, to scout the area, to fill the cracks of where I lay, a mockery of me. Projecting, forever projecting, distancing itself from me, as it roams the ground above, mimicking tremors that are not its own. I become content, knowing this clone has a chance shifting plates, I lose fear in staying in the hole. How I can lay here forever, in the dark, iterating on the versions of myself above the line. I can be anywhere, with anyone, simultaneously alone, with myself.

Need I the light? When the comfort of shade holds me still?  Need I the dark? When the cold penetrates my veins? A conflict engrained, morsels of hope snuffed out by impending uncertainty, the future’s light, lit with the oil of passion. Turmoil, ecstasy, debris and rubble, to be rebuilt, to be destroyed again, a whirlwind, a cyclone, a cycle. A pendulum that swings scornfully, a pendulum that takes as it gives, a pendulum that puts into grasp and inches away. Fearful and amused, entrapped and entertained, prey and predator, a spectrum as it swings. Laying opposite each other, the descent into one and the rise into the other, unable to influence its results, its calculated, surgical conclusions. Action and consequence, cause and effect, an eternity spent staring at a clock of possibility. A clock, ticking away, each second influenced by the swings, constantly in motion, I can only stare, as I witness the consequence to my actions, the effects I caused.  

The branches wilting, the branches prospering, the branches unseen, atop the tree. I climb and hope the branch below doesn’t snap, that my hands are secure, I hate hearing the cracks, before the fall. Falling, knowing the steps I took were the wrong ones, falling bracing for impact as I head for the ground again, falling grasping for any branch that can save me the climb again, how they all crumble, how a path is now denied to me, to see the horizon, atop this very tree. When I arise from the impact, I look up, working up the courage to climb the tree again, talking myself out of it when I remember the bruises on my back. A mindless game, each step taken with blindness disguised as guidance. Here I am found again, in the shade of the tree, my back at its bark, staying still, content in the still, always content in the still. Pass me by, with your judging eyes, as you point to the branches you would take, as you lay into me, your preaches of worry. Seering into my ears, as if I’d listen, as if I’m yours to command, as if I’m a starving cat, chasing birds, you lay tins of tuna in front of my eyes and expect me to pounce. How it keeps swinging, as I believe I’ll reach the top of the tree, as I realize another grave misstep has put me at the bottom again. 

Elated, exhausted, growing more wise, finding myself dumbfounded by the lessons I learn. Tapping a rhythm across the bars, imprisoned, yearning for freedom. Freedom engraved into the projections of myself. Free from time’s irrevocable consequences. Freedom that sits atop a tree of possibility. The emotions swing, as I ready myself to count the days, until I am ash and bones. The emotions swing, as I conjure my escape plan, to put my hand in the middle of the pendulum, to take control of its motion. The emotions swing, as the lights within my cell flicker rudely, as my eye begins to twitch. Content in the still, always content in the still, staring out the window, seeing those atop their trees view the beautiful horizon. Those above ground, standing at the epicenter of the tremors they weave together. Those influencing their pendulums, to where they want them, I turn and see, how mine just continues to swing, aimlessly.

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Something a little different, more on the way, working on something big, you’ll like it, trust me.

Much Love - S

[lgist]

This game we play, this sacrifice we allow.

A fleeting sense of authenticity, do the eyes deceive, do the ears? An accumulation of sense, this reality of ours, yet what we chase is unbound by understanding. I cannot hear it, it is not in front of me, how I yearn to feel it, to get a taste, a sniff, of what it has to offer. How it presents itself, hidden within each crevasse, each fold. Elusive, determined to flee, determined to be chased. Allowing itself into grasp, how it taunts the past, how it ignites the future. Toying with perception, even what stands before me is fake, this reflection. As if made of clay, molded by pressure from all directions, when can I raise my hands? This sculpture, carefully crafted, to exacerbate the execution of the truthful soul. All in the name of the chase, this game we play, this sacrifice we allow. Dare it be told, dare the dry clay crack, dare the mind to falter. For this clay is spotless, for this clay is authentic, for this clay is bound to skin. Skin, only bare in the confines of the lonesome. This flesh, no longer organic and breathing, now a machine that must accomplish. The beats of our hearts entering the world of binary, these 0s and 1s are black and white, for the opinion is no longer nuanced. You must choose a side, you must align yourself, you must allow yourself to be manipulated, acceptable. This world of bias, of divided tension, of animalistic instinct. For the sake of control, had we realized that we are wasting our time, bickering, raising our fists toward the sky, each set of dogma enshrined. We built statues for the controllers, as if they are our gods, as if they aren’t any more flesh and bone than I am, by the authority of their accomplishments.

How we marvel at stories, stories that get passed generation to generation, each generation embellishing what is true and what is false, all in the name of the chase, in the name of inspiration. Wishing to become our heroes, to be remembered for what we have done, instead of who we are. Perhaps they are one in the same, perhaps what you have done is what you have become. Have we disconnected from our actions or have we lied so much it has become truth? This game we continue to play, this sacrifice we continue to allow. How it blurs the lines, how it forces itself upon you, as you watch what the others, these gleaning showcases of artificial perfection, unreachable heights. The perfect body, the perfect mindset, these showcases are no longer human as it would seem, for they are without mistake. Until their judgment day comes, until a single mistake is revealed, until they are made human again. As this happens, where does their praise go? Where do their actions go? Their accomplishments? No, now all we can focus on is their person, behind the clay. Perhaps we should’ve done it sooner, yet these images are so alluring, we are addicted to envy and when someone is revealed to be one of us, how they join the pack. Is this any way to live? To either be impossibly perfect or inadequately human?

These ideas are just that, man made, to seek newer heights, to eventually reach the sun, to be burned by it. I see it now, the way back to the authentic, truthful soul. It exists within the flames of passion, within the confines of consciousness. We must escape our perfection seeking captors, this clay has become uncomfortable, how soft my skin feels. It is this moment and every present moment we must abide by. The future has no control over the present, the past has no control over the present. For each second is passing, each second is new, different from the last in the slightest of ways yet still different. How many will pass, how many are yet to pass? Only the present can tell, until the end of time. So tell me, what do you want to do now? Personally, I will do what I want, until damnation takes me home.

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Much love - S

[lgist]

The warden: Collapse.

Is it worthwhile? Spending a lifetime, chasing luck. Waiting for the moment to present itself, ripping it out of time with our hands. Wishing desperately, to remain here, to freeze. Fearful of what might happen, what could happen, when it will happen. Collapse is damning, how we learn from it, how we run from it. To have something, everything, to see it vanish within the day, to yearn to stand upon it again, to see the sky above the clouds once more. Once you have tasted collapse, once you have familiarized yourself with its methods, how frightening living can become. Serving as a reminder of no matter how tall you build, how structurally sound the building is, how sturdy your pillars, all it takes is one to fall for collapse to introduce itself. The air is filled with dust, what once stood tall is now rubble, and as we look upon the aftermath of collapse, we ask ourselves again, is it worthwhile? As we return to the ground, as the fall has hardened our skin, need we pick up the pieces and start again? To feel this pain again? The cold touch of the ground? Need we pray that the next building has a lower chance of collapsing? Desperately wishing, to have the original restored, to what it once was, if only today didn’t happen. Except we cannot freeze time, those seconds are stored elsewhere, to be remembered. Exiled from the past, the present baring its fangs with lock and key, the future losing its excitement. Such is the time altering prowess of collapse, how it can freeze time within the folds of our minds, how it can make the present a viscous prison, how the heat of the future cannot penetrate its ice. So here we sit, isolated in time, within our cells, reliving our lives. Disconnected, rotting, alone as we hear other prisoners cry. How can we escape from here? Some of us don’t even want to, as we sear our eyes into the sky, until our pupils are burnt into the sun. Comfortable in the snow, comfortable watching as others establish their skyscrapers, waiting for their inevitable collapse, how entitled we become when they get taller, shaking our fists, shouting “it should've been me”. How pitiful we become, frozen behind bars, left to watch as others invent new peaks, drowning in a sense of failed self-actualization. 

What does it mean to be motivated? To be willing to do whatever it takes to achieve? To be able to sacrifice for a greater good? To be able to push forward, regardless of how far you have been pulled back? What does it take to stay motivated? Is it a goal that cannot escape your mind? Is it a cause that touches your soul? Motivation is extinct in this prison, perhaps it is because we feel we have already peaked, perhaps we think we have accomplished what we set out to do and collapse has cut the reward short. Maybe that is the secret to motivation, an unattainable goal, a peak that evolves as soon as you reach it. Maybe that is the lesson of collapse, to never settle, to always progress and update what is outdated or it will fade. Maybe that is how we escape luck, for every variable must be experienced. You spend long enough in your cell, you notice its imperfections, its flaws, its deeper lessons. This place of comfort, how quickly you can feel entrapped, because of a spark, because of the orange tint that surrounds the metals. How outdated this cell feels, it is ready to collapse, how long has it been this way? 

How long has it been waiting to collapse? Under its own weight. One could say there is another peak awaiting you, on the other side of the bars, as the prison continues to fall, as you continue to realize that there is nothing for you here. That no amount of self-pity can reverse time, that no amount of unprecedented heat can excite the present. That the future is only a set of peaks, waiting for you to triumph each and every one, allowing you to fall again so you are forever grounded. We need not forget how the grass feels, we must remember where motivation lies.  

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Even I struggle to find motivation sometimes, Much Love - S

[lgist]

Please learn how to write before spewing your garbage everywhere

lol

[lgist]

Flawed people, with flawless ideals.

Conflated is the soul, with attraction. How it permeates this life, dominating thought processes, serving itself from the well of desire. As if we came into the world alone, spontaneously, weeping at our ignorant connection. To be wanted, to be accepted, to be understood, how the mind fries when absolved. Like screaming from the centre of a blackhole, how violent the silence can become. Peace attributed to an understanding society, chaos disagreeing. Disguised from understanding, the veil is thick, hidden from that which you chase. Unable to find the strength to lift it, to show yourself, for the veil will always be understood, as if perfectly crafted, molded, evolved is this mask. Betrayed were your eyes, when you saw the face of someone who lifted it for you, for you realise they have fallen in love with the cloth that covers your face. 

An image of you, portrayed like a painting in an exhibit, “how much does this cost?” They ask. Hung up for entertainment, to be pondered, to be examined, to be flawless, how they scrutinize over chipped paint. Pleading to escape into the canvass, we are artists constructing our visions, that which is displayed, that which is loved, that which is understood. Forever creative, we dilute our insecurities, we overrule our sensibilities, we dull our senses, we forget what we look like. Existentially losing our place, being replaced with the inanimate, as our hearts continue to beat, all to be understood. Becoming the ink on a blank page, the paint on a white canvass, the sculpture from a once barren rock, forgotten is the pen, the brush and the chisel. Forgotten are the hands that which crafted them, the eyes that imagined them, the ears that would listen to each stroke and thud they emanated.

Filled are the walls of the gallery, with displays of personalities. With each spot filled, it is so difficult to find your place, to fill a space with you. Each painting looking like the last, we are all a product of the next trend, the next big thing. Waiting with anticipation, we cling to the personalities of the few to dictate the rest. Forever concerned with our piece, ironic, how we think others will give it the same attention. We are each our biggest patrons, waiting to invest into a new idea, a new masterpiece, when the one previous has run its course. How quickly the artist inside us can burn out, can run out of ideas. How quickly the patron becomes impatient, waiting for their next hit of artificial beauty, angry with the artist who just wants to run away, into another canvass. Conflicted, the temperamental patron and the directionless artist, struggle to agree, to come to terms. Stuck, the two are intertwined, one pleading for escape, the other for beauty. Imbalanced, we struggle to stay on our feet, to keep the operation going, to pierce the black hole that has swallowed us whole. Pain hidden in our vocal cords, we cannot shout anymore, so here we lay, resting in numbness until the next piece comes to us, until the artist is comfortable to manipulate another image, until the patron can become addicted to the next attraction, until they can work together, to find a place where they belong. 

The goalposts shifting after each piece, looking to sift through any imperfections from the last, this job is tiring. Where will it end? When will the artist retire? When will the patron run out of funds? When will we regain control of our brushes, our chisels? To create a portrait of our faces, with all of their imperfections, to be displayed in one place only, never to move again. Where it will be our little mark on this gargantuan world, where it will serve as a reminder of who we authentically are. Flawed people, with flawless ideals. Hopeful people, with damaging fears. Loving people, with hateful tears. Logical people, with emotional ears. Anxious people, with fragile years. Misunderstood people, looking for a place to fit, to be heard, to be seen, looking to attract those who can provide as such. Entitled people, pleading for acceptance, in an unacceptable world. To be seen as human, as not a work of art, but as the creator of art. To be filled with misery, with contempt, to have those feelings realized, to not be alone in those feelings, to draw inspiration from authentic selves, to not drag oneself out but to be uplifted by those around us. To be alone and yet feel connected, to be voiceless but still heard, to be invisible but still seen. Such is the world of the authentic self, such is the gift of an imperfect portrait that spews confidence, that demands the world to pay attention, that fulfills other artists to release their brushes, their control. That requires not the attention of others to thrive but the attention to realness, what can be touched, what can be felt, what is human. As if the canvass has a heart, that could beat on its own, whether shown in the light or forgotten in the dark. Forget onlookers, discover your authentic self, paint it with brutal realism, hang it and let it hang for good.

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Don't lie to yourself anymore,

Much Love - S

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[lgist]

Hope, fear and dreams.

As our eyes shut, as the moon continues to rise, we enter a different plain. Bending the rules of reality, our minds putting centre stage that which we desire, that which we fear. To dream is to be human yet in the fog of chaos that presents itself while our eyes are open, we rarely remember them, putting aside this facet of life that takes up a third of our existence, we continue to live, to struggle, to rejoice, to grief. Forgetting what it feels like to fly amongst the clouds, to be with the one you love, to hear the voice of someone passed, we continue to survive. As if it is an attempt to escape, escape from what we are chasing, to finally have something within reach, not inches away from our grasp. A system so complex, there isnt the faintest idea why it happens. Cruel is this system, as when you arrive back to reality abruptly, how we plead to dream again. Perhaps this is where hope was invented, as we hope to realise these beautiful visions that took us to bliss. Confrontational is this system, as what we fear will manifest behind  our eye lids. Avoided was this fear in the day, be it fear of loss, fear of death, fear of spiders, the night will land eventually, ready to confront your fears, where we can’t hide from them. Interconnected is this system, as it uses all of your experiences against you, like a highly decorated detective, it knows all there is to know about you, ready to convict you of your latest crime. For the mind is a selfish organ, it is in these dreams where our ego is presented, where entitlement can flourish naturally. As it is ours and ours alone to experience, the mind is free to wonder. To ponder what it would actually be like to obtain our deepest desires, to experience our rooted fears. We are never ready for what our minds have in store, under the stars, what will it try to show us tonight? Where will it take us? Somewhere familiar, or somewhere new? To the moon, or in the embrace of their arms?

If one was to have each and every one of their desires met, would they still dream? Would there be something to dream about? Would there be anything for the mind to attach to? Maybe that is why we are opportunistic creatures, seeking to expand into every crevasse we deem fit, so we can continue to dream bigger. So the mind can continue wondering in it’s own filth, looking for gems amongst the heap of garbage. So it can remain hopeful of an even brighter future. Is this why contentment is so hard to achieve? When you know it can be better, when your mind subliminally shows you it can be better, why strive for anything less? Why desire a present that cannot guarantee a bright future? If one was to fear nothing, what retrospective confrontations would they face in their slumber? Without that self-preservation, without that internal monologue of safety, how can we expect to live longer, to achieve more than what we thought we were capable of? Ironically it is fear that can make you surpass your limits but also become acquainted with them. Forever persisting, to remain remembered and be forgotten. Oxymoronic in nature, fear can drive and fear can deflate. These emotions work in tandem, as if in a dance, we hope to fear less and fear to hope more. For what if our hopes fall upon deaf ears and become meaningless? What if our fears never subside, continuing to persist? Another balancing act the mind places on itself, another joke the mind loves to tell. 

It is another comical thought, to ponder what happens in our own minds. Why don’t we just know what goes on in there? What evolutionary standard allowed us to have thoughts of the inner machinations of ourselves? Why aren’t we privy to the thousands of automatic systems that we rely upon inside our bodies? What made our minds fizzle this information out? Like it has taken the liberty upon itself, like it is a different being besides the one it resides in, with its own aspirations and ambitions, that doesn’t allow itself to be seen in consciousness. That only shows itself in the unconscious, while we rest. Perhaps this proves the existence of a soul, perhaps our souls are our consciousness, constantly grappling for control and relieving it when we sleep, so the mind can be unchained, released, to give it’s opinion on how the conscious is doing. Unfortunately, we rarely heed its advice on the road to be whole. Contentment lives there, where the conscious and unconscious mind can meet in the middle. Where they can discuss where they want to go together, instead of working against each other, fearing to step on each others toes, hoping the one wont notice the other, dreaming of when it will happen.

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Dream bigger dreams, Much love - S

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[lgist]

Fear Of Love. Love pt2

What does it mean to love? To connect with something so deeply, you begin to orbit it, happy to spectate it’s beauty, happy to die for its longevity. Universal, is this feeling, how it shines brightly, blinding like staring at the sun bluntly. Addicted, as we burn our retinas, the mind cannot get a word in, rationality seeming absurd, as our hearts spill. We continue to spectate what can only be described as perfection, how we can manipulate ourselves into thinking it exists, how time will convince us otherwise. For love cannot exist without imperfection, without faults that test your conviction to love. Dangerous is this drug for that reason, the biggest gamble any one person can take, we go all in for love how defeated we become when we leave empty handed. 

All that work, all that admiration, all of the blood our hearts have spilled, all of the tears your eyes couldn't withhold, what was the outcome? A lonesome, cold rock, shooting through space in its infinite dark night. On the opposite end, when you hit the jackpot, how fearless you can become with an endless well of heat, exhumed from the dark, brought into the light. Is it worth the risk? Perhaps we don’t think of it as a risk but a necessity, a journey one must go through with the things that they love. Truth be told, I fear love, of giving myself to love, of diving headfirst into the unknown, just to see what happens. Where can one end up after this journey? In the embrace of something warm, where the cold cannot reach? Or in the clutches of frozen emotion, hanging from a ceiling? I fear of losing things that I love, for it is worse than never loving at all, to know the warmth of something bright only to remember its touch in our coldest nights, only making us more fearful of trying again, a diabolical cycle, one that consumes every iota of progress within the mind, for the heart is too loud in its retrospective cries. “Haven’t I given enough?”, “What more do you want from me?”, the heart screams. “It’s time to move on”, “We have given enough”, the mind pleads. Love births confliction within the soul, for you will question your own motives like you don’t know yourself, estranged from love we become estranged from ourselves. I fear of losing myself in love, in its absence, in hatred's abundance. Angry at myself, angry at love, hateful at what I used to love because I went to bust. 

How long can you run from love? Until it snatches you away and consumes you? Until it breaks you down and creates something new? Unpredictable is love’s gaze, its a random encounter after random encounter. Like we are all voyagers, mindlessly exploring the cosmos until a star and its gravitational pull finds us and we could’ve flown in any direction but we ended up here. Perhaps it is love that invented the word destiny, for it must've been fate that I ended up here. 

Orbiting this specific star, out of the billions that are taking their own space. Perhaps that is the definition of destiny, in the chaos that follows life, in the randomness that encompasses everything, it is this specific set of random circumstances that got me here and that has to mean something. There are millions of encounters a day, millions of interactions that happen spontaneously at a given moment, it makes the task of finding love seem impossible and yet when we stop looking and allow ourselves to fly, here we end up, under the glow of another sun. 

By the end of this journey, are we someone different? Do we become better? Do we become worse? Are we the same as when we arrived? Will we wilt away with this star until the end of time? Or will this sun expand and swallow us whole in its rage and fury, burning us to the core, until there's nothing left but a husk? Will we realise we are being burned in time to run away? Or, in our addiction, will we forget the star’s transgressions upon us? Curiosity killed the cat, we can only know if we try and explore these endless questions that love provides. That is the aforementioned risk, it is not a question of value to one’s wellbeing, it is a question of fulfilling our destinies of randomness. Of undergoing a journey bigger than ourselves, of finding out for ourselves. I cannot answer every question, for you or even for myself, these answers are given after experiencing all that love has to offer. Love has the ability to empower all that come into contact with it, just as much as it has the power to completely annihilate one’s self esteem, one’s ego. Are you willing to flip that coin? Or is it already spinning in the air and you’re looking at each flip with intent, waiting to find out where you lie? Are you ready to brunt the full force of love’s absence? Are you ready to embrace the power of love’s fulfillment? Only one way to find out.

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I love you. - S 

More soon.

_______________________________________

[lgist]

Spectrum of Compound

Unable to make the right connections, each route leading to their respective dead ends. Trying to use any lead we can to identify our culprit yet they remain elusive. The frustration piling with each mute discovery, taking leaps of faith to hopefully land where you belong, only to find your destination to be familiar. Disillusioned, dismantled, our demeanor eventually changes. The once blank pages that invited the mind have run out and what remains is a stack of expired documents, to reminisce upon, previous mistakes, previous conclusions, repeated as if mocked. As they replay, the mind tries to change the channel with a broken remote, watch it resort to the numbing static. No longer there to ask questions, the goal is a distraction from answers. The chase for shadows has been exhausting, the sun can only be up so long, so we explore the night. Looking up, into the mesmerizing sky, at the stars that dance together, that shine alone. Revealing secrets of the insignificant, the dark night can inspire a different life, a different existence. Except here we are, speaking our languages, using our currencies, disputing politics. Loving, sharing, collaborating, hating, stealing and dominating, the human condition is fascinating. Put here to find ourselves, at differentiating circumstances, with ideals imprinted from birth, how crushed we become when the veil begins to lift. Left to pick up the pieces, the pile is made of dust, a bottle of glue is put into our hands and we collectively wonder “why me?” Such is the irony of life, stuck struggling with our own individuality, we relate to the lonely. With nothing else coming to mind, blame must be placed on the culprit, that which has nested and gnawed into our brains, leaving behind a hole that beckons a filling. That which is pushing you toward desire and instant fulfillment. That which has taken the batteries out of the remote and hidden them from our sight leaving us to stare into a black and white mess. 

Sinking into the couch, the television screams her truths in pulsing frequencies. Comfortable, you remain here, silencing your will to continue your search. Failure leaves a bitter taste in the mouth, a delicacy served piping hot but can remain frozen indefinitely and like those carefully stored documents within the mind, the cold reminders are scorched into the heart. It is at this point it is the most difficult to stand up, like the weight of the ocean crumbling the pierced titanic. Laying on the sea bed, where no light can reach, where no sound can escape. Isolated, you accept what is internally repeated, like a blacksmith hammering a rugged slab of iron and turning it into an eloquent weapon. Until the very ideation of success becomes nothing but fantasy, where your eyes begin to water upon opening your eyes. Spiteful, we turn to hate, for hatred can never fail within the isolated. Hatred towards others, hatred towards ourselves, hatred towards love, for isolation cannot exist with connection, that which love provides. It is these opposing paradigms that make life so treacherous, emotions that play off each other symbiotically, negative and positive, can make you sink or swim. 

The ecstatic colours coming from creating something that is your own. The confidence that comes because you did it on your own. The fire lit to continue improving at it, to find reason to continue, the reason being to continue. The connection that comes from finding that you are not alone in your interests, where you can explore ideas and further innovate upon them. Where you are able to focus, your mind silent as you delve into your imagination. The bliss that comes from reviewing an expired document, finding a new way to overcome that obstacle and absorbing that lesson for future reference. Such is the feeling of flying through the sky, with the wind in your hair, arms reach from the stars. Where those who look up can see you shine alone and dance with your connections. Where they can silently hate you from, as you continue to find fuel to burn. The fulfillment when you take a frozen failure and perfectly season it, searing it to perfection and allowing it to cook to your desired temperature, like revoking its control on you, you flip the tables and make failure seem desirable. Compounding emotions are scary, you never know where one might turn into six, where the feeling of dread can duplicate, where success multiples. 

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Much Love - S

[lgist]

Dying in our lifetimes.

Dazed, our heads colliding with a ceiling. Trapped by ideations, where do we belong? Fueled by ego, we deserve to belong. As if every life is divine, as if every life is extraordinary, expectations of success. Pit against each other in a race for “votes” and “capital”, opinions weaponized and used to infiltrate our humanity. The politics, it’s all broken, systematically set up to speak for the people, rather than the people speaking for themselves. The journalism is in a sea of greed as they lust for the next click, the next advertisement slot, the next apathetic opinion to distill within the masses. Each generation using its own form of propaganda to enlist their militias of thought.  Lost in hierarchies and self-actualization, we yearn to progress, forgetting those we step on to reach our self-fulfilling goals. As if every success is lined with a dark and twisted fate for somebody else, the exploitation keeps itself hidden. “Story of life” we tell one another as we accept our terms and conditions blindly. It has been long accepted, this way of life, this way of living. With no clear method of changing our dispositions, we turn to violence, chanting change as we defile the aforementioned, way of life. We turn to substance, to distract our minds from the act of being present, for there is no worse place to be when suffering. We turn to survival, telling ourselves once every night that tomorrow will be better until we are left hopeless and numb, dying in our lifetimes, our hearts barely beating. With all of these factors combined, its a wonder we function at all. Its a wonder we still get together, we still worry for each other, we still care for each other, it begs the question, why? What makes us strive for connection? Is it the biological and evolutionary reason to duplicate ourselves? Is it to avoid that lonely feeling? Where no one can you hear you, where you are subject to your own undying criticism with no escape route in sight. It is clear that it is natural amongst us, no matter the reason, to connect and empathize. That is how they are winning, disconnecting the parts in our minds that need connection, that need conversation to keep running, that need constant growth in order to be our best selves. For no longer can the wings on this aircraft operate in unison, to steer us high above the clouds, where we are light and carefree. Instead, when one goes up, the other must come down, until we are whirling down into a descent all of us expected. 

It is this very divisive agenda that will be the downfall of all of us. Where we cant agree, we must hate. Where we cant express our true human nature to engage with each other, with respect and with honesty. Where we are put into boxes and categories, like banners in the military, we know who lays on our side of the line. At each others’ throats for insignificancies, we are glued to our screens watching every move of the opposition. History, set to constantly repeat itself as our eccentric leaders deepen their pockets at our expense, at our division. For all of this is a distraction from those stripping away our humanity, one little speck at a time, grinding us down until we are all “different”, until we are all “unique”. For without opinion, without expression, who are we? What separates us from somebody else besides physical features? So we indulge in their games, barley finishing thoughts as we move on to the next one, engaging with the inhumane to feel special, to feel a part of something bigger than ourselves. When, in reality, this bickering is hindering our progress and placing a smoke screen in front of those who put us here. The rule deciders, the fate etchers, the capital captains, those who only wish to see a number increase year by year. Those who cannot love, who cannot feel for anyone besides themselves, who are still an anomaly when it comes to psychiatry. The sociopaths who ironically dictate society, such is the system we are in. Divided by those who hold themselves higher, accepting their rulings as words from god, how they would look down in shame as the world is covered in false prophets and idols who tarnish what it means to be human, what it means to connect. 

Truth be told, this system is well oiled, well indoctrinated within every aspect of living. The musts and shoulds have never been louder, resonating with young people who are lost in a sea of accomplishments. Floating adrift as we search for any sign to continue, for what good is an accomplishment that means nothing to you? A promotion at an empty job, graduating a degree you never wanted, moving into your own home where you must slave away to keep within its walls. Every accomplishment, attached with a question, “where will it bring you?”. Contentment be damned for there must be more than this, than what is offered as soon as we leave the hospital. A life of imaginary virtues, imaginary values, imaginary consistencies. Struggling to find what is real, we no longer care if it is artificial. Perhaps, we will realize who we must place the blame on but what will we do about it? Already disenfranchised, our mental health is the worst its ever been, from where can we derive hope in a world of hopeless accomplishments? Our lives so far characterized by a magnifying glass as we scrutinize our actions and deny one from their chance of change, from becoming a better person. Instead we are quick to vilify, to create enemies with those who disagree with us. If only we could remember what is was like, to be human, to feel connected, to draw hope from each other, to boost one another's drive for change, drive for a better life. Dying in our lifetimes, the heart can beat again. 

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Much Love - S