Well shit so here I fucking am. Sitting on my bed like a monk , coffee in a cup macbook in my hands. So yeah fuckers I am so Generation Y, it is not even funny. And trapped in this madness of pseudo individualism i watch my sense of self disintegrate. Who the fuck am I? Who are we? There seems to be a we, its the internet feel babe. But fuck arrent we all just losing ourselves in the big fucking thing they call "the cloud" so fittingly. There is porn, there is newspapers, there is Facebook, there are downloads and youtube and amazon and eBay and paypal and so on and so forth. and there are emails and shit. and the modern city life? its just housing a virtual reality. no fucking surprise this shit is dull and deadly. i mean where the fuck is the sun on the skin. where is the taste of the coffee bean collected in hardship from a tropical paradise or hell thousands of miles away. where are the REAL stories. no, they are hiding behind a layer of what we want to be seen in a world with billions of eyes watching us just a click away. the real life, it takes real balls and we better not forget about that.
Ancient siblings, reborn duplications. Oscillations. Timid sisters cast back failures. Memories of moaning eagles. Bleak outlook cast out the breakfast. Once in a while the truth breaks through. Orange folders contain great pages. Painted horses trotting bravely. Punched-out drunkard, begging window. Wolves bark and howl in the autumn chill. The first chill of the year is the harshest. Frozen branches taunt the traveler. Ancient siblings pressing buttons. Ancient raindrops shimmer branches. Shimmer-shake. Chill. Forsaken oscillations. Black hole failures. Time warp nothing. Cursing strangers. Begging drunkards, broken windows. Frozen memories on painted horses. Moaning eagles in search of breakfast.
The problem is when we turn our periscope inwards. When the slide under our microscope is a mirror into our own minds. Our own self. When WE become the noun-like object upon which pronounce ultimate judgment. But not just our self. Of course, we must judge our self. That is how we grow and change and learn. We judge how we are doing. We celebrate what we do right. We wrestle and strategize where we do wrong. But there is a deeper sense in which the judgment becomes problematic. There is a depth of assessment that fails us. Jesus tells us to keep our microscopes away from it. He wants to be "all," but not in that way...
We are all one melody away from an epiphany. We are all one question away from a breakthrough. When I was a child, my grandfather let me steer the tractor (he held his hands over my hands, but I was convinced I was the one steering). When I was an adolescent, my teachers let me turn in my homework late. I guess there are many mercies and graces overflowing from the seems – seeping into the streams. And even now, when I look back on it all (with Chopin playing softly in my earphones), I see that I am lucky. I am lucky not to be an orphan. I am lucky not to be deformed. I am lucky not to be a lost alien on some doomed exploratory mission. When I look back on it all now, I regret my character flaws and the sins they inspired. But there is mercy and grace from the tip of our tongues down to the inner workings of our molecular systems. And I am steering the melody tractor and I am breaking through.
The closer you are to freedom the more tentacles encroach into your scenes. The closer you are to touching that tit of mercy the more angst-cream seeps into your machine. I was born of a naive woman and a small-minded man, in the middle of nowhere, at the end of a bitter winter. I was the bringer of fear, a stumbling block with blonde hair. When I fell over I would laugh. When I was left alone I would draw. I was the introspective one. The task-finder. I run my fingers against the paper. Smudge the lead to buff the pencil marks and mold the gray into shade. The closer you are to escaping your origin the dizzier you become. You walk into walls and lean against the sinks. The tables and ottomans seem to swing around you and you try, in vain, to keep them in place. You try to smudge the gray into shade.