Chaotic Visions I

Seconds are passing me by, and it’s futile.

But I’m looking for maps yet unknown and wondering if they’ll lead me to new places.

But what is new, and old when your life is a straight line.

There are no jagged curves and violent heaves.

Without an extreme, it feels synthetic.

Like a machine all alone trying to find its purpose in the universe.

The bull without a master is the most dangerous of them all.

Do you prod it with an iron stick? Or do you make it one of your own?

How do you tell the illusion from the mistake?

Do you pull the curtain back before a flabbergasted audience?

Do you let them drown in self-ignorance and let them discover the method to the madness?

Isn’t it all just a rumbling criss-cross of jumbled-up motion and intertwining fates on top of a speck of a dust?

There are no higher purposes, what if it’s all made to just be.

A giant test.

An experiment.

Starts with self-medication.

You slowly incapacitate.

When it’s just not visible anymore, you become your own test-tube.

You toss one chemical and then the other, hoping for an even bigger illusion.

Something so synthetically cheap and poisonous to yourself, that it helps you to see, to feel.

But you’re not there yet.

More chemicals. It’s a kitchen party and we’re all inviting ourselves to this giant experiment.

Still not there yet.

The fix eludes you.

This doesn’t feel real. Nothing does.

Not until there’s pain and love and sorrow and ecstasy. Nothing feels real without it.

Was this the giant plan? Are we so fucking numb? Are we so fucking dumb?

Where’s the colour. Did it all bleed out the day we twisted and churned our world into hues of gray

Black, white and pistol-shit

Death and desire, Sin and Sex.

If the world was inherently good, we’d have to be evil to feel, to know it was real.

To see the truth behind the lies, the dumbing down, the constant conformity. Feeding the chaos.

Killing the inner eye. Working for the man. Not sticking it up to him. Slowly decapitate ourselves.

To see what matters. For patterns start to emerge everywhere. Everything connects.

Once you’re ┬ádisconnected enough. from everything.

From prying eyes, from the chip in your brain, from all the unnecessary sound, from that painful ring in your ears that screams.

Screams and screams and screams. It cries hoarse. You have to fucking hear me. Why don’t you fucking listen?!

From the big man in the sky, that kills all that lives and all that dies.

Do you see the giant TV show, it’s playing out on a chessboard.

Three. C. Pawn to King. Decapitate.

E Seven to Be Four. Replace.

A warp machine is being created. Distorting the signals in our head. Its creating a giant fucking abyss.

Tearing apart all that thrives. Making mothers shriek. Lifting children up and then throwing them back into the war, like they did before.

The endless cycle continues.

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It’s Just An Idea.

first they laugh at you, then they ridicule you. when none of that works, they wave their fists at you hoping you’ll give up. when none of that works, they sit and watch in silent denial.

as time passes by and they connect the dots, they finally wake up to the idea. it’s not so bad after all.

and then it works, to the point of almost flawless near-perfection.

Wait, they knew it all along it would work of course! Who could be ridiculous enough to not get it at all? Flattery ensues and appreciation along with it. A few claps, the odd eureka followed by a few pats on the back. You did good, but its just not that good enough.

And then the slow slump into obscurity begins, More time passes away and suddenly, nobody remembers anymore.

The circle isn’t complete yet. Not before a stupid douchebag comes along, pulls off a cheap imitation, adds a few magic tricks, some snap and a little spice. The world applauds. Calls him a genius.

What a brilliant idea!