Chained to Fate

There's so much to a story that can never be summed up in simplicity without having embraced the essence and vitality of the content; that which dangles in the paradox of conceptual existence. If the experience and the process of sensory cognitive analysis of these fleeting moments are slept away; they are cast into the big empty. Possibilities and enigmatic anomalies fed to the vacuum of life unwritten. The absence of any relativity incubates the manifestation of illusion. An empty shell of a hollowed conclusion. In hypothesis, the very understanding of life then hangs in the gallows by a futile noose; a shallow compensation for idle contentment. A mausoleum of consciousness; abstractions of papermache memories. It's not all that it seems to be... but everything that it ought to be. Come join the masquerade. There's divinity in simplicity; though adorned with irony; is the beauty in tragedy. Living the divine comedy. How does one get to truly know another? What's invested through time and space, development and deconstruction of preconceptions? Anonymous interests tangled and shine in a web of sub consciousness run through the mind like a silent film. Engraving fragile images of fleeting glimpses of what could and will never be.I'd love to get to know you, but it seems so cliche to trickle droplets of substance when there's an ocean of existence within. Do we put ourselves on display, freshly packaged for the meat markets? polished produce... shiny red apples? At least in a market you can breathe in the vitality of the recently deceased in which we feast... (Let's dance by David Bowie plays softly to my left), and I say I'm not like the rest, but who are they anyway? All in all we are one but all in all we're none. "there is no modern romance..." so its been said, and what happened to that Shakespearean copulation in which we've read? No soap opera dramatic interests that's been spoon fed. Are you of kind that twist and unwinds paradoxes? Abstractions of the abstract mind? Do you wash away your sins in the light of the sun just to do it again and we do it again and again? When the only certainty in life is the rebirth into death... there's nothing to fear but ourselves. "And now I know how Joan of Arc felt..." Eloquent linguistics lull in my mind. They resonate through the evening as the physical image manifests before my eyes; if only in subconscious lullabies. Offer your fiery flavors, anticipation that burns and floods the reservoirs of desire and ideals transpired. A flame is born and spawns hopes for a day. The time in which our eyes dance and play upon and within one another, and skin abound flesh vessels that envelop our souls. Beauty as deep as bone; conceived from abroad... you carry the life and culture and you shake it well. Feed me the truth and the truth from your hand is the bread upon which I'll feast. And I reciprocate with the modest offerings of me...as long as the world spins round and round. In this life there will be sweet sweet sounds, lowest of highs and the highest of downs. We'll float towards the sky before we're lowered beneath the ground, and in this carnival of chaos we learn to swim or we drown, walk tall through darkened streets and vanquish sadistic clowns. Within and without the sweet sweet sounds still lies as we lay still... beauty as ever and always profound. Thus we strive to stay alive and keep our minds clean. Wake every morning and scrape our hearts from the ground, we make a better day for tomorrow. For the world will still be spinning round and round and round and round and round and round. The greatest of people won't hesitate to leave you there by yourself chained to fate...