I am now totally in the servitude of the music that flows through my ears.
Even while the guitarist has his mind concentrated on the succession of strings he is doomed to pluck for eternity, I can sit on the comfort of my bed, listening to it as I let my mind wander on a multitude of thoughts that scream back into the screen before my mind’s eye.
Do I miss my past?
Can I relive history?
Won’t time then collapse into nothingness if I could bring back something has already occurred?
But how would I decide which part of history to relive?
If I was to choose some section of the filmstrip, then the events of that time frame would be altered and I wouldn’t be what I am now.
Then would it mean I would be there in history in a way that reflects back in time the image of me today?
Oh, I am stuck in the pages of a paradox.
Does it depend on which side of the book I am looking at?
Oh, too many questions.
Abstractions float before my eyes and I can see fumes of smoke dance to my tunes – my tunes of the future I want to live.
It is an imperial command, and you are all doomed to sit before me and hail me!
I am not God!
But why then would I demand servitude?
It is the fear in your heads that has forced you to conceive a supernatural being.
But would kneeling down in front of your fears chase the fears away?
Would it not feed them more?
Misspellings mean nothing any more to me.
Why would they have be directed to wait in my future holding aloft a banner that asks me to step that way so they can inspect me for the changes they have sought to seed me with?
Can changes be initiated?
Or are they so because they happen as an alternative to mistakes that would otherwise lay hidden in plain sight?
Why should life stretch to a hundred years when, in the end, you die with the purpose you are born with?
When you swim out of the divine womb unto the world, it is a punishment.
You have to toil and toil, while the devil shoots his clinging arrows past you, and when the day comes that you have not been asked a question in the first place, you drop your interpretations of the answers around and walk back to the womb of the earth whence you came.
Why?
Why do you drop and turn back when you know where you are going?
Life is not an adventure, it is not a book, it is not anything.
It is because you have made it to be.
Leaving the scientists to explain their overbearingness in fiddling with nature, you have brought upon yourself a shadow of self-pity, leaving a trail of uselessness similar to the void.
Oh, this cocaine makes me feel like I am on this song!
You would think of all this as gibberish, wouldn’t you?
Meaningless sentences pour forth sans a halt, but how can it be when all the words are meaningful?
Or am I blabbering?
You think I am a freak, but when the same words are uttered by a person of note, you accept him/it for not what he is, but for what he has made himself to be.
Evolution has degraded us in the name of civilization, and we have lost the belief in ourselves.
We cannot trust ourselves anymore, and when a man who can walks into our midst, he is great.
We have brought all this mockery upon ourselves, and we bring more by the minute.
Slaves to masters who believe in themselves, the slavery is my master.
I have not me to call out for in agony, for I don’t believe I will come.
The slavery consumes me as the moments that I lived float by, and I can see myself change from what I was, to what the slave will be.
And the master is watching as he whips himself.
Read carefully.
It is nothing but a mirror.
Clathration Therapy 