ahcouldnever
rough nights every time they drain you often threatening a flood taking everything with it why did we choose this valley to settle in when we couldve aimed higher up the mountain i fear its less rational reasons rather just that constant innate desire for self-sacrifice as stupid as it could be although wait didnt we say we should go diverse and not come back for the same old tried and tested solutions i mean if we dont suffer how will we know and enjoy the better times we create and work towards ok i guess.
the difficulty of this constant consumption though is that its hard to focus or do rather anything other than whats present right now right in front of us so all these acts of what may be and what may come get relegated to a future tense ambiguous and even though their possibility isnt as remote as we make it out to be the excuse is powerful enough that we arent doing the actions arent acted and the play becomes stale as the stage dulls out to candlelight no audience to entertain yet still the gazes feel heavy boring into our boring theatre of future anxiety its laughable.
i need time—
—and—
———
space.
space to breathe
space to think
space to pace around
doing nothing
while i prepare myself to
do something
you know?
i thought id be better at handling chaos and i guess i can manage it but i can only really do one thing during the storm and thats surviving i work i provide i eat and i adapt to current conditions frenchman beachside but similar to that i feel more and more as i go on that instead of that space im looking for i build up a—void—a mindless falling into a place drained of soul and self as all thats left to drive me is a vague ambition whispering keep going go on well get there one day it says but what happens when the days lose value and identity individuality as they pass by hundreds marching and all we see is a parade of empty years bone-thin rail and nailed to grotesque floats a show of greys under whose shade we find no respite from the heat of our desires this potential we keep holding up is eternal and infinite beyond what we can think on the spot one- to four-dimensional apostasy its all so so ridiculous.
its not like the realisation will change anything this is what weve always seen a jumble of words mumbling their supposed greatness into a space empty of listeners but our selves this play-thing army of entitled bastards and bores.
the work always seems to garner the most attention and defines the path and i wonder how much of it decides is good or is it again just a convenience that we cant be bothered to create something more while although this is its own form of creation true is it true to us and faithful to our ink im not sure honestly the best i know is that willingly or not it drags us into spaces of higher potential even as we cry murder red-headed step children that we are ungrateful to anything or any one.
are we trying to cut ourselves down cross the middle split into more pieces than we can handle all for the sake of not calling ourselves sellouts are we really gonna go back to that adolescent rebellion against anything commercial okay im not gonna say there is no merit to it but how much more have we claimed how much more complex have we evolved drawing from the benefits won through coping and moreso conquering bits and pieces of this universe outside ourselves we are no genghis khan but we have the blood in us to spill for our own cause and tyre may taunt us but where theres a cause theres a causeway.
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