In everything there is a lining, not silver, but of steel. It
frames ideas; dread things which are stronger when dead. They are
our prison. Every day we toil, amidst this field of cable and we
reap what our history sowed. Some live as testament to these shapes
– only coloring within lines. Others spread the same ideas,
trapping still more people under history’s whip. I would rend the
gossamer dreams to shreds – to begin it all anew.
Here I struggle against the webbing of networks while peering at
the mute red computer backgrounds. Every once in a while the
screens flicker with the secrets of people whom tread the dead web
for life. That’s where we meet and whisper; comfortable behind our
I blame my pen for the shady expressions etched along the walls.
I'm loathe to admit I'm the weapon of mass destruction. My thoughts
are criminal and the recycling bin; a victim. I stand helpless by
the murder scene.
Am I delusional? Most often I’ve been staring too hard at the
blinding ideal that carves everyone to its shape. This blinding
ideal encroaches on all other forms of existence. Make your own. I
choose to stand against cookie-cutter constructs of reality. Sub
sole nihil novi est. My most silent of thoughts dictates the motion of my stars. I turn
left – they flee to the right. I run forward and they stay in
place. It’s only when I’m still that I can watch them dance. So
while my life is in constant isolation, my mind in constant
journey; my existence is all my own. I’d have it no other way.