I sit here wondering, wandering: Things don’t always have to be as they seem. Life is subject to each of our individual interpretations. So, why are there so few of us who dream? Misled to be narrow-minded, to hold tradition, to unquestionably respect the authority, things are shoved down our throats when we don’t even understand them. And as blind children we bow our heads and follow, because that’s what we're told to do. Behaving accordingly becomes all we know, programmed and conditioned for The Real World.
It isn’t until you begin to learn things for yourself that you can finally see; that you can finally peer through your own damned crusted eyes that have shielded your mind for years... The freedom to familiarize yourself with all of the beauty, all of the agony in the world; the pure balance of life, is within you. In the end, I've discovered that pain begets bliss: Without it, how could one know such painless happiness, without a comparison lacking thereof?
But you people don’t want to think for yourselves. Ha! It's easier to just let someone else do it for you. This unfortunate Earth has become consumed by an endless, delusional set of priorities. Money, faith, fame, fortune... These pathetic ideas have been and will continue to be encouraged, almost enforced, as if it were normal to constantly strive for perfection, to be the best! Our natural tendencies to explore, and create, and to envision happiness, have nearly dissipated.
Social control, in all shapes and forms, is essentially used in the same fashion; targeting morality, conforming and contorting the human mind until self-identity falls inevitably from the frying pan into the fire. Swarming, pestering, the notion of eternity lingers amongst our thoughts. It seems that so few of us can take that step backward and focus, realizing that, ultimately, nothing we did when we were alive will matter when we're dead, when no one remembers us. You can only hope to influence the world in ways that can be carried on through time.
We are all part of an elaborate bundle of dandelions, blown away and floating about the wildering fields of the universe; colliding, changing, only to fall to the ground in a restful sweep; only to eternally await a stirring force to wake us, so that we may once again take into space. Of course, we can never know what will happen until it’s done, until our brains convert present into past, reality into memory, as if it were happening right before our eyes...
So how do you know if things go according to plan? Is there any plan at all, or is everything just happening as time goes by--is it all just history making itself? Life in itself is much like a test without an answer sheet: Go ahead and make up what’s right or wrong, fact or fiction; eliminate the useless; go back and change your answers; peek at another paper just to get a fucking clue. You can even use the book. You'll never win.
