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Grin Away

(Just Like Curiosity)

9/29/16 06:26 pm - If Sometimes You Know What It Looks Like; If Sometimes You Know What It Felt Like

I went through an anorexia-assimilated phase in my youth, my early teens. I've referenced it, it was incredibly successful. I found myself in excellent shape, despite the strain and the pain, I actually found quite the fruition through the measured routine and practiced exercises in renditions of a researched and exacerbated theory in alternative approaches to help myself stay in a form of health that really seemed to be at risk for me, before I got into my "regimented" practices.

I was homeless for a great while. My parents are the only ones who deny how long I was homeless, while they constantly reference how hard it was for them, how much they worried. Their biased focus never left. I was scraping by on food scrounged out of garbage cans for the majority of my sustenance, almost in entirety... There was the occasional gift of canned food... sometimes a restaurant would offer me aid... Every now and then I'd get a check to make up for remainder funds from insurance having taken too much in the past, or whatever the explanation for the random flow of cash that came back was; almost universally in the form of an occasional check to cover that there was money that had come down to me after some time from when it was noticed I was owed it back. I mostly lived off of refills of coffee with milk/cream to get calories and nutrients at places with free refills... there was a fast food freedom to take up a cup for soda and get enough fluid to fill my stomach and sugar to give me the energy to walk to some place to sleep without getting in trouble, some place to sit without offending someone who had a house to live in and the money to occupy a restaurant rightfully.
I even had a great gift of occasional free food from some of the people behind the counter, I had the occasion drop of of one up to twenty dollars... I salvaged all of it for a decent income of sustenance at the best value. Tactical, practical, in sustaining myself while keeping out of everyone's way and working on my own mind out of the way of everyone's abnormal level of intriguing offense at my own ambitions, as they sat inside of me, swelling with what I really wanted to be. Paying for school doesn't get your props up on the wisdom of insight in the Buddhist meditative practices nor relationships with love and Nirvana in any day I've ever walked through a class room, ears open wide and mind ripping through the words to drain it for what I wish I had out of that unkindly time-costing affair that leads to a letter and a promise that keeps trying to tell me I should give up my values to bend over for someone I can't talk to because they never hear a word I say.
But I kept alive and I fed myself and I remained with the freedom I thought to care for in the face of the whole world telling me not to sit down, not to rest there, not to speak my mind, not to take advantage of the things I did know, I did own, I did get to get to...

I ate held in jail, I don't consider it a long time. I saw the offenses threaten to take me down and didn't have an interest in another injury leading me back to the precedence that had consumed my freedom the day my physician's most associated nurse labeled me with the wrong diagnosis for a disorder; and I never got to utter the words, "These meds hurt, mom..." and be taken for anything but an undisciplined liar and sabotaging idiot working my mouth to take advantage of the people around me. I read book after book telling me I was wrong, I was unreliable, I couldn't be trusted or listened to or believed...
I remember the food... It was like a bare minimum making sure no one could do anything but stay alive. If you had form, frame or figure to speak of... sure as God-damned hell that diet should leave it left to thinning the strips of your strength to fight back. Keep it clean for the guards so you can't hit hard or take things into your own hands; then the irony in inmates mouthing off and turning violent while I get it up in vindicated over an open attempt at processing my own needs. And don't you fucking talk to me about the officers on duty and the corruption of the fucking police force. I saw those men and women, I listened well and heard them while they talked and fought themselves, all their own, to keep the peace in a place that didn't quite entreat nor care but for leaving us in the dust. Just prisoners with prisoners and the occasional drugs: you get to get out when it's readied-up time to talk to a judge. They cared, they fucking cared; but the things that fed us, the things that held us, and the things that we got to say without a repercussion in some fucking legality? We were prisoners through and through, on a mental unit with a doctor passing by we couldn't even talk to.

I lived next into and through that time on the streets and homeless indeed to take up some residence with my two backpacks like property sitting it up for once in a real god-damned bed for me. I took to it in a residential treatment home with a focus on Drug and Alcohol rehabilitation on the only process it intended. Some rundown stretch of cabin where we took to the multi-bed rooms with only privacy in the sharing of the restroom. I'd wander the gates of the front driveway like a pacing discontent, humming and singing on occasion with my mind reeling in a favoring of free-thinking. I got those parents back home making sure I finish that place up on a full-scale education for getting over problems I've never had and only heard in the reiteration of the recovered and the suffering expressed by news casts about actors and psychological theory in a secluded classroom about counseling in practice. But damn, did I learn my shit and damn, did I make good for it. Friends, tune, spiritual paths all fell out of the woodwork as I listened and lived in. The parents yammered on not letting me leave until I proved I was well in their eyes, while never taking the time to listen to the treatment facilitators words without an argument, a string of lies and complaints about the cost for a place that let me be fed and bed in their place while I wasn't allowed to work for being such a socially de-primed disgrace.
God damn had I known and heard everything those carriers of my rights had laid claim to, you won't know how much I saw in everything they were disgracefully down-talking to. Good people of heartfelt knowledge and well-earned rights in a world of experience. Talkers who knew math and hardship like such lowly serviced employees on a low-cost independent enterprise providing the service you tend to hear of like some high-yield expensive resort in an industry to which you can't resort. I knew their wisdom and kindness when they spoke, I watched them give to me and help me when I had little right to have kept it up in hope. You watch people whine and lose it when they've got nothing they need to prove it valid nor available, not even actually real in any life or way. I've heard of diseases my doctors get shocked can be claimed as theoretically available while people whine from wealthy rights and total arrogance... but you ask them if they can relate to your pain in some semblance of care, and compassion flies out the window wherein it was never there: and I can't help but watch them not know what it's like, to have suffered and survived in some real fucking life.
So I lived and I learned, again on food not fit for this bird. The diet was for alcoholics to recover at best price, and you bet your ass the owners in charity asked me to talk about how to arrange to not have to charge. Then my parents whined and complained to me, and I couldn't help feeling the awkwardness of living like insanity.

So I left and lived in a run-down place, overlooking a street where nothing lived across to face. Blank houses with families who owned loud t.v. screens, and I occupied a room with the laptop on overdrive playing from back when I wasn't yet out of high school. I ate when I felt my body whine for needs, but never did it threaten to start dying. The medication couldn't be turned down, and I couldn't help noticing how much it made me feel sick. Just like the olden days it was worse than having nothing yet I couldn't get rid of it. What the fuck was I supposed to do? Go back back to the streets living without my own money guilt tripping over the demands of people's generosity?
Since whenever I started feeding out tips and handing off cash to the people on the side who looked like they needed it, never in my life where I wished I had enough to give did I want some dependence on strangers to live. I taught myself ways and practiced trying to get the world around me. All I've learned is how much people can take from you when you try to live for free.
I played myself out in that room, pushing to get it all done with Domino's double-medium pizza deals refrigerated after a couple slices in wherever the refrigerator had room. Don't get me wrong... I soaked up the cheap-ass bulk of coffee out of too-easy-to-break machines and dosed myself up with a simple plastic filter to guzzle down water when I needed a little fuel. I got the occasional visit to a Costco, compliments of someone with a car who held my cash for me because by then I wasn't allowed to handle any of my spending. That dosage of ramen out of a cheap water-boiler and sometimes a peanut butter and jelly on white bread with Skippy and thick pasted faking it was fruit. But those pills had to get eaten and my time was spent abiding by the pain that had been growing my whole life as I had nothing to lean on that told it to stop getting worse; the pain those meds kept pushing me into so I couldn't lay them down and think in comfort for some while around.
You bet your fucking ass I was grateful back then. It may not have been my right to spend freely a dime; yeah, I may not be allowed to breach into owning by bank accounts in total at having two thousand bucks at a time. Sure, I could get sued, dropped, broken and unpropped while I work to live without losing my dreams to be able to someday solve and give. But fuck you and fuck that, no offense to anyone who cared about whether or not their pet cat was even enjoying their house and life amidst them like something with feelings could be something to feel for.
I was getting it through, playing out everything I could play with as though the future was still available, as though being beaten back and told a straight firm no to my own rights to walk a street were something new. I know now to be careful, don't tell someone you've heard what science is for some time now, don't mention the words enlightenment or that you've spent your life walking towards it by any way and and any how. I know the rules and I live on what I can get while I'm cut off from moving forward because I'm not allowed to mention what I don't forget.

But I lost that room, I got in trouble at the school I tried pushing for while working to get up on the thing I was commanded I had to pursue. I gave up my information and my rights for a disability check because no one would hire the insane young kid coming out of a rehabilitation center out of a couple of visits with inmates in the 'you're mental' section and all of its magnetically sealing holding cells; always room for two or more. I couldn't even get a chance at being held up to a way out while military personnel apologized in voices that sounded right that told me I couldn't join up to earn my future just because I'd kept to my values and followed the rules once they were told, while people kept telling me I needed to stop putting up a fight. I don't even get to volunteer without a higher level of ownership over property in this country, a better background check that results in looking at what I'm told is the cleanest background. I don't get to leave the hospital until they tell me that I'm too well to remember my wounds, I don't get to be released from a psych ward until they're sure that I've finished the program and can be predicted to obey their rules in mentality, I don't get to leave prison until I do the exact time they claim me to... I'm not even allowed a certificate of graduation for the schools I passed, that rehabilitation center I spent so fucking long at. They'd tell me I did it, graduated altogether with it, then I got to sit there while my parents said they were afraid of turning me out to live anywhere else, then complained about the price of keeping me so long, whined about the price of a home for addicts not taking the surgeon's forms for applying medical insurance.
So I looked up for logic and read out for reason. I tried my whole life to learn what I was told and kept up with people by working at more generous and peaceful entreating. But it comes down and I've got a record in ploy, sure I've recovered and learned but the record's right there from a history written up by people treating me like I've got to constantly behave as though every word out of their mouth is something to fear.

And now I am, living amassed in practice, listening to my friends and loved ones say they can't get at this. I've gotten to hard into my mind to lose what I believe like I could have when I didn't have the power to keep it mine. I got friends telling me what they say, that I give non-stop, talk intellectually. People keep reminding me I've gone deep into getting it, tell me their in love with the ways I keep reaching out and never regretting it. I've got that kindness looking up to me and in all the world they let me help them and speak and I've seen results as they play out just like I'd like them to: taking my words or thoughts and reaching out something in a way they enjoy to bring themselves up to something they'd rather be, some way they'd rather live, some idea they'd rather believe in.

So I'm starving on too little, I'm looking at the things that are supposedly supposed to recognizing it's just some jive that can't ever be good to me. I sit in a prison of being cut out all too clear an outcast surrounded by everyone acting out in fear. Still it's good to me and I'm not hear to breathe out like some bitch giving up on what's it gotten to within and without. Fury and wrath aren't complaints to an ear, talking about shit is giving away what you can say and I'm speaking up out of all of those times people have begged me to tell it out.
I hear those words of people who wish they could fucking kidnap me, steal me, breach me... Friends who can't afford to visit my town crying over wanting to earn me into their homes while we talk up a storm and they beg me to write more poems. I know too many kind people, I see too much growth and purpose in all of my effort as time lets on and the decency and well-beloved things I once longed to serve in people get stronger from it. I keep myself up every god damned day, and watch the people I respect most while they pray for me to my fucking face. Someone out there just got married, but I don't need some law-bound practice to feel love. I know plenty of people learning out of school the craft of preach and pastor to live in a dream of something and then they turn on me and we discuss the way to find out God's something we all ought to love as though it were real; if its all a lie and this shit's worth nothing, do you think that matters if the practice of believing in something pure is such a perfect way to take a sinner and make of it something?
I know I'm walking into death every day. I know no one whose authority I'm obligated to listen to is ever going to have the power to actually take care of me. I watch in fucking enlightened euphoria the ones who love the truth that we're together in this alongside me, who gives a shit if they're in my pain or helping lift the strain. I get what people can do. I know that no matter what I'm a fucking corpse being hunted out by laws that can't even go from 00 to 01 if they count, I don't care if I barely even get to have the perks or the benefits of this bedroom and the property that's there. I'll fucking survive that nothing else is mine, and that other people get to dictate what is and isn't mine. No matter the length of my life, I'm getting tired of the worthless fucking lie.
I'm not someone who has rights left. I just have what I've built out of myself. You think I give a shit about that winning on the multi-million lottery ticket being a gamble that gave you so damn much of it? I'll handle that I'm with nothing while I'm fed to death with shit that always costs me something. I'll keep pushing as hard as I have for it and I'll keep working forever because I'm no longer stupid enough to think I'm not good for it. I know I'm dead every time I feel through my chest that what I know of measuring my own pulse in my teens has proven that this weak and hollow echo isn't a fucking heartbeat anymore.
I don't get to have anything from the people constantly taking away how I get to live, so until there comes a day where maybe someone figures out a way we can save me I'm going to act like that creature that doesn't need it's life to live.

In care about my values, in joy at what I've become and in dedication to the things I love: regardless of any day to come, so long as they are the them that have cared to be something that I can fight for with self-respect not being entangled in thinking I'm putting it up for some asshole who's going to pull off the process for cheating out the things I fucking work to die for___
Whether I end up in something to call Heaven or Hell,
May it all serve my intentions well...
Love, myself

9/25/16 01:52 pm - A Poem For My Friendship Today: Momentary Delay

I've been running into my mind so deep into my furthering practices
All I see is a light so bright it'll eat the world around it;
Glowing and complex like the depth every night seems to lack.

In all lack of obliviousness, I know how hard I've been cheated
And every face I've seen is like some awful and fake little lying scene
Even my favorite woman doesn't oft have the balls to tell me how she feels
And until I get her drunk enough, she won't face up the simplest flirt

But I know what I am and how I play
Who the hell would hear my words without my mouth on the keys?
And know a single god-damned thing?

I mean, I get how positives-in-kind can be so attractive...
I find in all reasonability completed theories for crafting black holes
Out of those perfectly useful stars.
With a touch of a small-scale precision magic trick...
I have a list of ways for blanking out the stars in the darkest of constellations
And making that decisively defined black hole, all it's proclaimed mysterious incongruity
So damn simple, so damn weak, so damn easy to replicate as something much more complete

This universe can be collapsed into itself and turned into an entirely new foundation
We can build an eternal learning structure out of the wisdom in inter-connectivity
Ever raising up around us...
No end to theory and understanding as it pulses in full to make stuff the likes of which
Even our worst fantasies and darkest interpretations:
could never absolve of intellect and truth.

I carry schematics for superstructures in my head
And as I ponder and tweak them all
Like some simulatory recraft in full draft at my absolute discretion and lengthy playful tasking
I know no pencil and paper could even fairly reference them
Without taking to letters so intricate and defined you couldn't imagine them well enough to see...
All those shapes and curves and sharp, jagged, deathly letters' parts: Driving Them Insane.
I don't even know if the paper would survive me playing at that game.

So I store it away and mail it to Godly Thoughts
Channeling Red like my religion had always meant everything to me
I develop all practice into entirely new philosophy
And create new tongues out of my mouth just to whisper them in my wakeful and ever-active sleep
I've got my Nirvana in a world that barely lets me breathe.

I take a walk across the street and a car almost hits me
I wander to an empty park and suddenly its full of people
I stray into a shop for consumable self-sustaining tricks to watch everyone play their best
I try explaining anything or something to anyone claimed a professional...
to hear them miss every fucking moment and lie about in a panic at trying to still do their supposed job
I get invited to Christianity as though I've never known it...
just to correct them about the importance of actually reaching up to anything GOD you can find
and obeying its grandeur in the most direct aspiration if you ever plan on being in Christ
Like you keep pretending I haven't already done.

I watch wavering in the air and know these things that whisper around me are more than tangible.
I watch the sun fall around me at awkward angles that defy the reasonable naturalities for any beam of light to obey,
Shifting angles, creeping across shadows, climbing under the hood of my parasol,
The sky is a-haze with dirt like a cluster of some sandstorm in a barren prarie
The medicine always tastes a little like death,
and I walk in an awkward step: therein death be all the more available to known.

I never survived my suicides, I just grew up all the more enlightened.
I don't mean to lose a thing.
I don't care if anyone ever takes me seriously throughout the full of this affair.
I don't care if every body that gets weak when I talk to it never lets me slip off its clothes.
I don't care if all the people who cling and hold to me ever say the tangible "I love you."

I've got people all around my limited network of direct access stepping up above themselves
Acting moral, acting smart... and I see them every day through those thoughts and conversations
I'd swear I'm answering the prayers you're just too dumb to think of;
When I watch you all behave better in the next time we talk:
Exactly Like I Told You To.

- I love you all.

8/8/16 02:13 am - Pour Your Heart Out - Psychotic Foreplay Results, As Referenced For A Measure Of Doubt

God, the disgust in my mouth makes it hard to pity them. Sometimes I'm more tempted to eat them alive than to keep supporting their... their demand for submission, for subservience. They're just like everything I tried to undo, everything I fought. All of that horror, all of that fear that one moment off and everything would be lost. You can take care of a problem, but when you go to visit your parents back home, you're not sure if they're not the problem, or perhaps the fact you've let yourself be taught to see them as better people than you are. It seems like it should be minor, to me, but I'm hinged on what might be the last page, I almost won, and now the last thing to save looks more rotten than the worst thing I'd encountered, at heart, and far less easy to convince into change. This whole species is a plague to the idea of paradise.
There's that shred of hope, however. That one that comes up when I'm led to wonder if I'm right, if these correlations I'm experiencing in such tight correlation with what I'm aware of are valid proofs that my deeper, most involved progress is actually reaching the result I kept finding sitting there, staring me in the face, telling me I could accomplish it in a time span that preceded my death. Like I let myself believe my parents were better people than I am, I keep letting myself believe this achievement isn't actually possible; in all that irony, I'm starting to take my option more seriously.
I hear rumors, as though other people have been pushing quite fervently into very relevant realms of study. I know, unfailingly, the data I need if I'm to encounter any real-world confirmations of the things I keep having brought up for myself, those studies aren't going to be available. Every chance at knowing more that I find leads down to some dead end imitation of what could be insinuated by taking its findings and making them... well, as humans do, taking them backwards, degrading them, and using them to pacify people's needs in the modern world instead of providing this species with an opportunity to enhance and understand what it could have been, if it knew what caring actually was.
So the roads keep concealing their potential findings into softer, less implicating practices. You find an ocean for the first time, and come home with a grain of salt. Everyone feels salt goes better with their food. Still, I know someone's been out there. I don't know that any of the subjects have maintained composure, I don't know... which thing I know, I can't find what piece explains what happened. So here I am, watching what I'm going through work, the results are setting my nerves off and I can understand what I'm staring at while recognizing my readings will never comply with the systems of deciphering phenomena that reign in authority for the grand world around me. I'm lucky, though, I'm alone here. I never need to explain a thing to anyone. This possibility, if I can breach it, god the irony. It's already become too hard to doubt that it can be done, if I prove it, though... it'll only be because I've done it. If it goes as far as all of what I've been seeing day in and out says it's going... I'll be able to finally go where I belong.

8/8/16 12:32 am - Broken References Out Of Order: Trading Memories

A spark in a moment. That's... well, I'd like to say that that's all it takes. I can't bear to say that that's all that it took. A spark in the moment and my eyes opened; this is true. They saw something, and the lie of the world, the lie of my life... I'd never bothered to believe I knew who I was. Perhaps that made it easier.
I dropped what people would have called a perspective, or interpretation of the world, then, if you could say it like that. People have been through this sort of thing before. Isn't that fair to say? Someone would be inclined to read those words and recognize images throughout history who have stepped out of the ordinary line and become famous in referenced contexts, so often within certain regions or specified communities. Then, they get written down and carried on. Sometimes I'd look at that and think of myself as an amateur, under-accomplished; I'm pretty sure I'm going to stay some nobody; I'd certainly rather stay hidden through all of this, it's not the world they grew up in anymore. But I always looked at what they had to say, tried to carry it in heart. I'd manipulate it, over time, like I did everything. No matter how I put things for you, will you ever know that my tone of voice is there to symbolize something?

I grew up in a strange place.
It may seem odd
I don't think of my childhood as when I grew up
It formed the foundation of what I destroyed
To become who I am today.

Everyone has ambitions and goals in life. I sincerely believe that this statement can be justified; these aims may be as simple as living well or being happy. Strangely, they have to fight for it. Strangely, all intercepted details make it look like they'll have to fight for it more, but that statement gets complicated. People look at those living in 'impoverished' nations, they assume their life is a constant struggle. There's a long list of details to reference on that subject, but generalized is a concept latent in the human mind that, without technology and civilization, human beings can be neither safe nor happy. Humans living in regions with technology and civilization, they look at what they've done to get 'this far' in life, to reach the point they're at. If you pay attention, they take well to the claim that they've had to fight to get there. Fighting is no longer the struggle of combat, the fear of death, the battle with incurable disease. Things have moved on. Fighting is getting the job you want, handling finding your perfect social circle, discovering yourself through what media best represents your heart.
A spark in the moment. I would like to offer you this, but it's not all that it takes. Realizing you're standing in the middle of the street doesn't mean you've bothered to get out of the way of oncoming traffic, does it? So how can something this complex really be put so simply. A spark in the moment, and my eyes opened. I've been cutting them out ever since.

Did you ever notice how much the world shapes you? It has become a common practice thanks to the field of psychology to talk about how our parents raised us, how the experiences in our life shaped us. The big events. Perhaps especially the ones you know to think are bad or that society disagrees with; these are the most common to address as suggested by current practice. The things we learned to see as good for us, these come up to, they must be to blame for what we learned about how to handle our worlds, or why we cling to holding up with the morals we perceive the rest of the world as representing for us, while criticizing the stupidity we see in the people around us we're simultaneously attributing these morals to.
So what looks into the way our television forms a culture in any serious semblance of discovery? The way that 'peer pressure' references, in practice, an extreme of a commonality that forms behaviors which condition the human condition into remaining consistent? What about our adaptations to desire, or the neglect of desire, as it rolls out... What about everything we chose growing up? Freud discussed the super ego, did anyone think that wanting to be a charming member of the royal class in a fantasy world might have shaped or revealed parts of themselves that define them today? Things like the need to be liked for posting on twitter? The desire to be accredited for saving the kingdom by taking down the big bad boss who was running on unfair rules? There's a retaliatory phrase we hear in media, "I'm not your little princess anymore, dad!" What does that teach you to believe, to feel, to think about what meant something to you as a child? What does that insinuate that we've already been learning to believe? Do you think that visuals can cause seizures? If emanating frequencies impact through the eye what's going on in that long channel of nerves leading to the back of your skull, do you think there's some chance that it has an improved opportunity to modify you? What happens when desperate isolated individuals look at small, blundering puppies, it certainly seems visual reception triggers all sorts of activity and association within the mind; and then it encourages behavior that intensifies this experience. I mean, do they get more or less affected by it when they give in to that risen desire to pet the young animal and start talking lines of what they've learned means happiness and love in appreciation?
Just in interest, I've watched someone treat animals in online-posted videos better than they treat their own pet. The impact of their responses is far more nurturing, far more tolerant, far more excited, far more liable towards signs of kindness. Do you really think this event offers no insight into details about what people are like these days? Who neglects their pets to watch to see someone else's through online videos? You can justify the phenomena, but I know by now that most people's justifications are covering up what they don't want to know, conveying things that only a minority can stand by in evidence.
The whole world is an experience, it changes you, it drives you, it teaches you. Humans never stop learning, never stop changing; things may solidify, but I assure you that the appropriate trauma will erase that behavior. The mind is more like gelatin than stone, and the whole thing is reactions, activity... chemicals, electrical signals. People behave differently when they're watching television, same person or no, they feel differently, they get inspired or disgusted, they walk away and they encourage everyone to do what they did. I used to encounter that activity in elementary school, our teachers taught us to do it; constantly. Everyone has to share, even those who don't want to partake; if you won't give in... there's that feeling of not being accepted, or good enough, or valuable to the classroom. That emptiness where emotional needs encourage you to draw up for emotional suppliance, don't you think that that might change someone? My teachers were innocent, naive. I would judge them as such if I knew them today, if my dug-up memories of what they were like show anything. A good heart does not a good impact make. Not anymore.

Everything. Having seen it can mean absolutely nothing. You look around you, at your room, perhaps you have a novel sitting somewhere. You can pick it up, take the time to read the whole thing, maybe you're particularly keen. Did you learn everything from that novel? Did it have values, ideas, information, plot, satisfaction within its pages? Was it enough? Do you feel satisfied? What if when you picked it up, even with it being something you hadn't read, you felt like you already new its story? You started reading its pages and everything made too much sense, you knew you couldn't say out loud what was going to happen next but none of the details were... new. Five pages in and you realize you don't want to read this story; someone says it gets better later on, you know it doesn't matter. It bores you, and one good moment isn't worth a lifetime of pursuit down roads you already walked, you just... hadn't realized it yet. You couldn't remember them, but the second you get there they are old and they are trite, and none of it impresses or thrills you. You come to realize that even when you reach the better part, it's all grown so dismal that better just isn't very impressive. "It's a brilliant shade of red darling, but so were the lips of the woman I was making out with last night, and I assure you... their taste was more impressive than their color." Things change, insignificance adopts new companions, and what are you? All alone, knowing things so much that you watch it and, every step of the way, it's just old news.
I hear people talk about movies they've seen "hundreds of times", they quote the lines and they laugh and... it's a more intensive display than any future partner could ever compete with trying to rise out of them. I know someone who loves them subconsciously notices this, somewhere. Maybe their emotions pick up on it for a moment, but as per commonality it gets ignored, they laugh alongside the moviegoer, life is perfect. I get sick. The entire moment is lost to their recollection. I looked away... for this? I dig another slice of flesh out of my eye socket. It's not good enough. I already know that story.

Disconnection from the material world can be difficult to achieve when compared to dissociation. While not every message is clear... if you stay amidst it long enough, sometimes you realize it's sunk in already.
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