Posted on December 4, 2018
Because she is different, adventurous, spontaneous, completely illogical. She has the perfect amount of curves he’s called to, a captivating charisma, a confidence of core character. He thinks she’s a beauty both on a basic biological basis and in brilliance of a bold brain. Her arch in her back sends him wild to the sky, sending messages overseas in a bottle of opened vulnerabilities. He thinks of her as a princess, depicted in his mind as an ideal that can’t be shaken and scratches his head as he shakes off the slumper with another night dreamt of sleeping beauty. What a goddess in his eyes, a pinnacle of potential perfection. She was a light on to him, and he contrasted her glow. What was he to her? The shadow underneath, the repulsive underbelly of way to many nights cramming codes on keyboards. He wasn’t at her level, she was just too pure to be his. So he held out his hand and dramatically took it back, “I guess I’ll just go.” And on he went without her, mopping and trying to man-up, but he was a mess. Mortified to the merical of a possibility, “Could it have been us?” He types her a message in pain of a reply. Why does she barely reply?
Because he’s like a reflection, one with the shine of an extroverted magician, that can spark her fantasies of romantic affairs. He is the exact fit to her storybook ending, a man of charm, a lover of her world. She believes he is stable, even with his unpredictable consistency, he manages himself. She writes letters to him daily she never intends to send. A ritual act that builds up her love of his lips, a lust of the lingering link between them. She wonders about him as she wakes up in the morning, as she goes to sleep at night, and all throughout her walking days. He seems so far away from her now, halfway across the world. Many time zones away, she was ahead of his lifetime and she wonders if she’s ran too far astray. Was she ahead of him? Did she move too quick to capture his concentration? “Was she just too above him?” she’ll wonder as she writes these words on journals she’ll share to the world but will not dare for him to see. “I suppose I could reach out now,” she will say as she sends the first email, a response 4 months overdue. The hurt of her heart hangs hopeful at the positive reaction, but why does she resist to reply?
Because his actions are off and the mood of time’s discordant records of behavior calls for him to not know what he wants. Is it her, or is it just,
He likes himself…
Because he has the ability to choose what he wants and where to go, what to do. His freedom is first and frankly that is his choice. He admires his extreme lifestyle and is a diehard addict to a businessman’s pace. He replies back to her for himself. He loved her, he remembers as he trips over memory’s lane.
He likes her, but she likes him, and he likes himself.
But maybe he also likes her?
Because she likes herself.
But him, the him that only likes her, never really likes himself.
So she can never really like him.
Posted on November 19, 2018
See the rain fall down like a simulation, the crackled thoughts on the page. Believing most of our best thoughts come from corner set cafes and clouded conceptions of choice. Which pill to choose the one that’s red or the one that’s blue?
We want NEO so we have to be Trinity, the third that doesn’t equal three because she is him and he is she. Writing on empty, we have no shadow of purpose and somehow the mood slips away from our oracle and we all fall.
Walking in the splashes of numerical light, are we the one or just another agent of the agenda? Who are we? We walk, nothing phases us, not the shoe salesman who attempts to grab our hand at the door, not cab driver who tries to couple us up, and not even the same demons that define us, that follow us halfway across the world and back again.
Everyone in the world can just back off. Sickened by the amount of people who will just use anyone for free work without purpose. If there’s another Instagram post about how life only gets better, then why does the post only make us feel worse?
There goes another snapchat story about what a person does every second of the day like there’s even the point of living a life someone is constantly filming. Does everything have to be on camera? Such an invasion of privacy. How do we humans even take it anymore?
When the clock strikes 9:18am and we are late for work. “You have a problem with authority Mr.Anderson. You believe that you are special, that somehow the rules do not apply to you. Obviously you are mistaken.” (Mr.Rhineheart, The Matrix) Part of a system that we don’t comply to, we, the employee, has a problem and thus the company has a problem.
What’s the point of profit in a world where we don’t grow food to have a meal but catch one outside a pub or a favorite noodle restaurant? “I used to eat there. Really good noodles,” (Neo, The Matrix) we will say as we uncover the truth of the reality we are actually living in. None of it matters when we discover the codes. What does it all mean?
“That the Matrix cannot tell you who you are.” (Trinity, The Matrix) We are involved in a world of our own creation, manifesting at will what we birth to a new day. Tired. We are so VERY exhausted of the constant facade we show the “real” world. The working world, the world that everyone wants to appear to be a part of but not take a true part in. It is a machine.
A disgusting, non-feeling, multifaceted organism that we can’t escape even if our lives depended on it, because our life does depend on it. Our minds are addicted to the matrix.
We are slaves to it.
Even as the letters get typed on this virtual page, these thoughts couldn’t reach a soul without the artificial exposure of the web. We are tangled in it. Forgetting the dramatic realization that we are the spider that set the silk. Trying so desperately to seek a way out of it, but how?
“The body cannot live without the mind.” (Morpheus, The Matrix) This mechanism of madness is a mental matter and the residual self-image of our bodies keeps us trapped in this prison of perception. Five senses not noticing we have any other ones.
We lose sight of what’s real.
Hearing nothing but endless beeping swoosh sounds of cars.
Smelling the sweet breads that cover up the hints of cigarette smoke and cat piss.
We taste nothing as we eat for sensation mindlessly, because when we touch ourselves we don’t have any feeling.
It’s a senseless place and, “Unfortunately no one can be told what the Matrix is. You have to see it for yourself.” (Morpheus, The Matrix) Because, “It is the world that has been pulled over your eyes to blind you from the truth.” (Morpheus, The Matrix) That truth is we could be so much more than just slaves to it. We could be the one, we could all be the one, to live that truth.
The first day that one wakes up and realizes that they have a choice, is the beginning of asking ourselves, “Why not stay in wonderland and see how deep the rabbit hole goes?”