Originally Posted on Monday, 10 January 2011 at 05:14
I
begin to question. Simply question the foundation of my very
beliefs. It's all blond on these isles. Therefore the prospect of
other lands appeals, without a doubt, to the slightest inclination of me
finding a place to get lost. And I shall.
I've had
enough with starry-eyed, smoke-filled rooms and the laugh that they
were real when I was in them. Playing jazz and acting smart. We all
become liars and we all become angels.
As Godspeed had said,
"We're
all trapped in the belly of this horrible machine, and the machine is
bleeding to death. The sun has fallen down and the billboards are all
leering, and the flags are all dead at the top of their poles.¹"
I could pretense my reasoning no better. It was useless to breathe.
The
solace idolized by the id may never be found. Struggles of light and
dark in constancy. Golden-lined coffins. The unfortuitous scream of
mother nature. How did I laugh so easily? When you let everything
just slide off of your back, out of neglect, when is it important
again? When does the reel change? Or maybe you just can't. Maybe it
just looks like a damaged landscape painting. All the right colors, and
no discrepancy for geography. A pious brushstroke.
I could fall into it like a daydream or a fever.
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