Sometimes happiness dreams of depression, yet as thought and illusion intertwine the projector stops and resets to the next still shot.
Sometimes we think that we are so well nothing can touch us, yet as humans we cannot survive a day without receiving some type of tactile affection.
Sometimes you long for “it”, yet “it” continues to linger in mere fantasy instead of opening the mind’s door into dreadful actuality.
Sometimes I ride with the window down thinking everything is going well… yet is it really?
Sometimes the cycle never ends, and one remains in the monotony of life.
“REO can you hear me?” “That’s what I thought.” “Maybe, it’s true…”
Sometimes I wish I could just ignore the need to read Ethical menus. Who am I to judge? “Fuck it.” “I’m eating cake” “ARE YOU SERIOUS?!”
Sometimes I just want to forget, yet the sweet illustration of eccentric companionship makes me want to burst into tears of confusion.
“I miss you.” “Well, fuck (I miss you too).”
Sometimes “sometimes” doesn’t exist and melancholic fantasy catches up with somber reality to create a melodious horror ballad.
Sometimes I hear the millions of voices , sometimes I hear the few words of wisdom, yet sometimes I listen to my heart’s cry to beat once again…AND, sometimes, I wish I could just press PLAY, but for some reason (one I can’t find in the control menu) the PAUSE button continues to lull my arteries to innocent sleep.
How can something so intangible be so real at the same time?
Some treasure it dearly; others hold it with great antipathy.
Even though it’s always gone, it manages to come back somehow.
Its arrival is sudden, yet its sojourn is persistently extended on each occasion.
Still, it never fails to leave the door open for all those who wish to greet it.
Again, and again, more minds continue to dwindle on its everlasting presence.
However, only few can actually escape from the ensnaring walls of its hotel room.
Are we sinners, dreamers or just straight up losers? If you’re reading this, it’s because you’re currently sitting on the sweaty and washed out leather seat of the PSC (If reference has failed to be transmitted into your impeccable human brain genome, read first post.) In continuation, to further unravel the stories of a once wide-eyed blind serpent… we must acknowledge that the “mind” is a being of its own. It once was, as our dear Merriam Webster would say, “The organized conscious adaptive mental activity of an organism”. Pause a minute… I omitted a word from the definition, can you guess what? Of course not. I would have never known -well, not until recently- that “unconscious” is the hidden next door neighbour of “and” in the definition. Oh, wait…There’s no “and” in there. That’s exactly my point. There is, but you obviously can’t see it without going to the direct source of the definition. The mind plays tricks, if you didn’t already know. Yet, I have a different theory. What if -hypothetically speaking of course- our brain was somehow wired to omit certain parts of it. Take the map of a small town, for example. You feel so powerful holding the map, automatically believing as if you have been shown everything that exists in that picket-fenced suburbia. Yet, just between the Sheriff’s office, the ice cream parlour, and the Gemini forest… there lies the house of old man Norman. People know it’s there, well at least they think it’s there. Then again, they never see it, or maybe they do in impromptu thoughts that end with the blink of an eye. To find Norman’s house -the mind- is a long, arduous quest…each step gets you farther than the last. You need to quit searching and start pointing the telescope to those erased words that have always been there. Very few know of the existence of this infinite library of the “unconscious“. Yet, maybe, those “very few” are the only ones who are allowed in. However, just because you were lucky enough to go from one side of the hourglass to the other doesn’t mean you’ve somehow achieved something astonishing like the manipulation of time. No, the real admission ticket shall be awarded to that being who achieves to pick up the pen of invisible-ink… only then, shall the blind acquire sight, and shall, much like the serpent, shed the bright skin and slither into the mindfulness of the dark cave.
Hey there pessimistic human, orange robot or random 3D object…Welcome to Filostarcam: A crystal ball, where magic surfaces to tell the concealed verities of life through written expression. The purpose is not to make you read and carry on, but to make you think and reflect on why roads can’t be painted yellow and have black lines. Are you still there? Or did you take a few seconds to ponder on the idea of the color of pavement? Let me remind you that there are no coincidences; you just simply need to look and use your Psychotic Street Cab (PSC), which you will need in order to enter the portal into Filostarcam. Did you already lose hope in all hum(ins)anity? Yes, I said the word “insanity”- because, in reality, psychopaths, dreamers, and renegades are what keep this realm sane. If you do wish to stay, pay the cab upfront and don’t waste time wearing a disguise. Careful, because the red numbers will just keep on changing as we go deeper into the yellow road. So, now I ask you, do you need a cab?