The poetry was once in motion.
Now, only aging. We dream of a day when we can better dream what reality should be, and we dream and dream of a day when we can have more elaborate dreams than we do have right now. So let’s get foggy (get lose), and forget the difference between dreaming and reality — chemicaling that turns life into a projection, a hallucination of an ideal. [do you get what why I’m reaching out to you tonight,, saying hello.]
Look, I know this old school theology: but this is what haunts me, this is why I exist as terrified. I have ideals. I have visions of how I should be, and how the world should be. &yet nothing is like that. visions always fall short.
that line is a portrayal.
I dream of days when I can dream a better life for myself.
You will get sick of capitalism.
You will get sick of tribal liberalism.
You will get sick;
The feeling is overwhelming.
The feeling is just a feeling; who cares?
(There’s no reason for me to be here in the first place.)
But I’m surprised that a person with no ultimate value beyond this life, this being as just another life form here — with no religious value
Could ever bear witness to such beauty? Such an ocean? Such a sky?
If I’m meant to just disappear; why am I here to see this explosive blue sky?
Why not show me something different? Something more boring?
So I retreat to my shell; — it’s
not supposed to go through
we on the other side are fine