[I wrote this some time ago...in a frantic state of dread. I'm not sure but I think I like it]
I write primarily not to destroy, but to build.
They say that after a few years, the average infant's brain loses ninety percent of the neuronal connections it had at birth.
Our reptilian brain--with its coarse desires and uncivilized mutation of the senses--is ripped apart socket by socket. It's connections severed. Parts of the psyche sectioned off in the name of security and order. Wrapped with crime tape. Nothing allowed to come or go, under police orders. This axon is a dead end. The road is closed. NO Trespassing. NO Tasting Shapes.
The caged beast seethes within, force fed assembly line miracles and deluxe genuine imitation boxed set emotions. How bored it is. How hungry for still living flesh.
It is unamused by the Amusement Park. Visitors are welcome to gawk and scrape their fingernails against two dimensional images of the Nerf taboo from behind a commercial plastic safety screen. Cold Unsolved Jon Benet Mystery Cop Files vs. Who Wants to Blind Date Millionaire Girls Gone Wild? Like touring a museum of wax forbidden fruit. Feast your eyes. And on your way out, drag your numb unfulfilled senses through our giftshop. Fire up those primitive circuits, drain the blood and send Coca Cola, fast cars and Abdominizers through the veins until there is nothing left. A very shiny, glittery and loud animatronic ride, from which the only exit is to become part of the spectacle and convince yourself that it is Real.
So that is why I write. Not for anyone else. But to build new roads around collapsed synaptic freeways. To let my eyes know what's been welling up inside my fingers. To break plates and throw rocks at a sclerotic equilibrium. Because I miss the smell of gunpowder and the warm embrace of your uterus.
I write primarily not to destroy, but to build.
They say that after a few years, the average infant's brain loses ninety percent of the neuronal connections it had at birth.
Our reptilian brain--with its coarse desires and uncivilized mutation of the senses--is ripped apart socket by socket. It's connections severed. Parts of the psyche sectioned off in the name of security and order. Wrapped with crime tape. Nothing allowed to come or go, under police orders. This axon is a dead end. The road is closed. NO Trespassing. NO Tasting Shapes.
The caged beast seethes within, force fed assembly line miracles and deluxe genuine imitation boxed set emotions. How bored it is. How hungry for still living flesh.
It is unamused by the Amusement Park. Visitors are welcome to gawk and scrape their fingernails against two dimensional images of the Nerf taboo from behind a commercial plastic safety screen. Cold Unsolved Jon Benet Mystery Cop Files vs. Who Wants to Blind Date Millionaire Girls Gone Wild? Like touring a museum of wax forbidden fruit. Feast your eyes. And on your way out, drag your numb unfulfilled senses through our giftshop. Fire up those primitive circuits, drain the blood and send Coca Cola, fast cars and Abdominizers through the veins until there is nothing left. A very shiny, glittery and loud animatronic ride, from which the only exit is to become part of the spectacle and convince yourself that it is Real.
So that is why I write. Not for anyone else. But to build new roads around collapsed synaptic freeways. To let my eyes know what's been welling up inside my fingers. To break plates and throw rocks at a sclerotic equilibrium. Because I miss the smell of gunpowder and the warm embrace of your uterus.
so great, in fact....that I have forgotten what I originally came over here to say/ask.
so. I obviously rock.