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Stream of Consciousness by Marla Singer "The attempt at introspective analysis in these cases is in fact like seizing a spinning top to catch its motion, or trying to turn up the gas quickly enough to see how the darkness looks." -William James
Welcome to my mind...
In life you'll either stand for something or fall for anything. But who really knows. She asks. How do you know when love is? Gives that look. Says…you’ll know. Bull shit. You don’t know…you DON’T KNOW. I could eat you alive. Lies are still lies when they are to yourself. Butterfly wings and water ripples. Choose well my friend, because this encompasses more than you. How do you know what’s right when reality unfolds? Hyperreality takes over my mind. Because vandalism was still vandalism in Pompeii. Do anything to get back. Live it, love it, feel it, be it. But it’s not you. It is not you. What is you? Who is you? Who is he? Why is he here? Why am I here? Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition. Truth lies in imperfection. Why do I love you? But do I love you? These are the questions. These are not the answers. Wherein life lies. The future. Is fucked. Because it is not yours. It is mine. The world. Is media. Poster, song, picture, writing thoughts thoughts thoughts, sing, dance, listen, dance, hear, feel, see, dance, love, dance. Dance; perfected and stagnated emotion. For you. But I’ll do it for me. On the stage. Life is quite the stage. Always full of performances. And aren’t they entertaining? Or they are not. How real does that tear roll down your cheek. But why do I judge? That tear on my cheek is forgotten tomorrow. Replaced. Can I sit on this couch and wait. No. But I will sit on this rock. Because it is more real than you. I will sit in this field. And watch the mountains. And feel the stars. And breathe the clouds. Because something there is undisturbed. Undisturbed by me. Why put our faith elsewhere? Common sense…is merely common. Then why do my eyes hurt when you look at me that way? And why do I get sucked into the very midst of this human illusion? She says it so well. The world is not ready for that kind of loving. But the piano will always sing its song. Like I will always be stuck in this naked cage. Finger tips reaching beyond. Feeling like eyes see. Never grasping, though. So I’m ripe for the picking. But check that maniacal force at the door. Because my soul is old. For 21. And her flower petals are wilting. In the most glorious way. I will meet you again. Absolutely. My friend, absolutely. My love.
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