Only TimeMature

I think it would be altruistic, to say that my biscuit is a plain Oreo cookie. Once ingested it can provide me with enough energy to walk 100 yards or create another fantasy in my imagination. I could be in a space station, directing traffic in a vacuum with no nation, some contemplation for me to think of this in my school library- of munchies that stimulate on the tongue to be tasty and lines I write that emulate the superiority of my non-existent heroes effect and causality... to write a rhyme that effects like time and space, a universe-wide elusive verbal dragon that I chase seems so far away in my prison of contemptible indifference.

Ii wonder if it's nature or the nurture of my environment that make me think like this, that make me wish, that I could live in my imagination away from reality's aggressive inflammation of thoughts and ideas that appear corrupted and distorted in the mass of nerves inside my skull that all go unrewarded. In flickers of insignificance, I feel a need for independence from the constraining waves of my mind's inner workings that break tidal barriers and leave perceptions rocking, talking to myself, to remind myself that I'm not the only one around here.To stop material death I need spiritual arrest but I think I'm falling down the well trying to cling to the bucket and I can't override a subconscious instruction telling me to fuck it.

Whatever happened to the friends we had? Just dusty pictures on the shelf now.

It's raining now. Some say they don’t like the rain, being as it’s cold, damp, and dark. I don’t think of it that way though… water from the heavens reminds me of lot’s of things. Memories of when I was out in the cold, wet seeking refuge at the place that a portion of my heart was. Days that seemed like the world was over and bliss seemed non-existent… at least for me anyways. Actually, the rain is probably one of the only things that kept me going at times, because I always sort of fit right in. When you’re all alone, and your mind is your only company all you really do is think.

About anything… There is no way to escape reality, not without drugs. All you really do these days when you’re by yourself, only pleading to hear a familiar voice, or see a recognizable face. It almost makes you yearn that you were born that day, because maybe then you couldn’t get stuck in those moments that have been and gone. After you know that your chances in making a difference in the world are shot down to a shitty 1.5%, you try to stumble upon a reason. We’ve all had hopes and dreams that never came; yet in the end all we feel is pain. Friends and people you love seem to turn into objects, friends because they didn’t stick around, and the ones you love turned out to love you less than you loved them. When you can’t love yourself, your life is about finding somebody to love… it seems to be the only thing that could ever make you happy.

Where are you now? Are you dusting pictures too?

Patience is one virtue I never held… waiting for something to come is too complex when you start to wonder if in the end it would turn out to have never arrived. Things are almost magical when you don’t find what your looking for and it instead finds you. If not magical, than the most beautiful coincidence that’s ever stumbled upon your existence. We all experience fear; it’s a certainty that no person can deny… fear of time. How irreparably does time change life, like a runaway express train to sorrow, unstoppable and unforgiving. The thief of life’s polish robbing you of everything you love in your life in a single lifetime. Time is on the side of no man; it is the neutral foe and friend of all humanity. Presenting to you glee and contentment in one moment, then snatching it all away in a few turns of the clocks remorseless hands.

Oh how it makes you think so very much, day and night your thoughts run untamed depriving you of sleep and interest in all other things. Yourself takes the weight off your feet and rests in a room of solitary captivity with the walls tinted by the views of an intellect with no limitations. The world soars past you on it’s black colored wings, while you are no longer existent in the human race with no body, only but your new senses while you ponder among the pattering of raindrops on a lonesome rooftop… Anthologies of concepts and insights on things that could only be examined at a glance so faint it could hardly be made out to be of any importance… and that’s what makes it significant – the fact that it is unseen and untouched.

Perhaps that is the only difference we make, a difference in ourselves. Oh how reality snaps the foundation of your wings and leaves you with only fragments of will to carry yourself further. We sit in that humid space engulfed in the odor of soaked earth gazing away through the only window in the room, in search of a meaning… perhaps in the end, it will be that miraculous twist of fate where all our lives we were not meant to find what we were looking for, but meant to wait for it to find us.

The End

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