prisons of personality

[Sepia]

To pass stupidity among us, a leaf of hearts felt in this neverending life, circle become us and turn our hearts towards heaven. You were the guiding light, a shadow streaking among the stars, a dying flow, a destruction of ebb and daring but not for us, not for hope, a dalliance with oneself, a failed romantics' dream, shattered early in youth with the discovery that love does not conquer all and love as we might have been led to believe, does not exist for while it can and might, it won't when it is to be expected for both fate and random chance have a cruel streak within them and those who deem themselves worthy of it, those who lie in bed at night and whisper to themselves in the darkness, invoking their demons but not their angels, hoping for salvation but praying for damnation, yearning to be judged and to be released from the fetters of ourselves, feeling the generations weigh upon us, it feels less set in stone now, this age, there are no wars to build upon and we keep more silent, talk about what matters but isn't important to us, somewhere along the way we forgot who we were and when we remembered, we saw our lives as shallow broken things, devoid of what we once had filled it with, information we hoped would stay with us, information we could pull out of the top-hat like a white rabbit made of straw, alas
the souls and minds we once were lost in the twilight of subconsciousness and we remembered we were not builders, we are not builders, we do not carefully erect a new palace where our minds can dwell, we tell ourselves we can live here and it reminds us of when we were young and cared about a great deal of things, too many things that we let slip as we tried to think about Lovecrafts quote about adulthood and we ourselves turned into them, into it as we were looking a different way, hoping for different things, imagining how it would be when we became what we are, orphaned children sitting outside a derelict mansion, too tired, too exhausted, lonely hearts waiting for the proprietor to shoo us off, to be forced to walk the earth for another cycle, to see it all once more in a different wrapping but with the same underlying mechanic, to see all the marvels and the wonders with weary eyes
Boasting to none, telling none the tale

Letting dreams slip, words make everything simple, makes everything easy to see and understand and we pose as powerful magicians, technicians of mystery in a world where science is the god with the old religions in their death throes, waiting for the son of god to reboot the franchise and even though so many worship the trinity they will not worship His Son if he should arrive again for they've read that story already or seen the movie and they move against him before the miracles can root and set deep, there will be no ascension, there will be no touching of the godhead

Why here and this, these hands and these hearts, sinking in its own beauty, caught in our throats, expanding like, oh

Are we truly the children Arthur Clarke saw in his minds deepest hope or are we nothing but the carriers of the civilization virus?

What more should there be than eating, drinking and fucking? These are our parametres and faith in religion or science is our crutch- science will find a  way and god keeps watching over us, the bigger picture is reserved for the hivemind of scientists or the all-seeing eye of the lord god, the enlightenment of the individual is still aeons away if it will ever arrive and thinking about it, why should it? Information is not knowledge but information comes easily while knowledge does not, there is nothing tangible to show off, there is nothing we can photograph or blog about except passages, ideas and concepts but they are intellectual in their nature and ours is not, the age of science heralded the age of anti-intellectualism where we now sit, attempting to rub rocks against dry grass to see the holy fire once more

The silence shifts in the fragrant, mists pour in the early morning, summer something different now than what was then like a familiar face growing older, I used to love the silence and feeling the discomfort of those who never got used to it, an edge or a weapon with no apparent use at that age but now, an idea even more brutal, adults feel their shame when the french angels break their tingling feet across the divine floor, tufted toes spreading over the cold cemetery soil, time is weird, a derivé in a microcosm, where those six feet under recite their obituaries like mantras, their I AMs reduced to an interpretation, their souls and lives described in a readable fashion, written well as we browse them, convenient lies to make it work with the narrative, byte-sized and single-serving like death is in this age and as elvis showed us, the smartest pr move anyone could do, the last mystery in an age of science, le grande magique

We are all bathed in the light of reason in our culture, faiths and beliefs being defended, religious notions protected by rational thought and science in itself guarded by passionate intensity, every birth the beginning of a story, the beginning of something, this life emanating from the alpha and ending at the omega, our own personal reality where we die from public eye and are reborn in our own sphere of fiction where gods once roamed but no longer do, we banished our gods and our demons, locked them away from sight and thought, contaminants we'd never want again, a law  we passed on the battlefield that are our souls, everything super-natural and non-quantifiable, everything that doesn't fit within, the monsters that need a true belief, wrapped in fairytales, shrouded in  a mystery that doesn't tell you that something will happen when the penetrator becomes the penetrated, an  idea that can never be defended, only accepted and in its acceptance, a form of transcendence is found, something bigger than us exist but unlike the gods of scrolls and tomes, the bigger picture does not care, the icons and the symbols do not care of those whoe birthed them, like the stars and the sun and the void doesn't care, like we don't care about the whys of our children, our cats and our dogs

Vampires, werewolves, weeping stones, the sanguine tears of a wooden jesus on a copper cross, trolls that operate the subway stations, our oldest religions that  only the fringe can accept and believe, the miracles only the true devout can see, mad men held a prophet's power once like they held their affliction, a curse of   madness and wisdom both, revered like messengers from a god or a pantheon but seldom envied, they had power but not the power you'd want for there was a reason they held power when they held it, they didn't hold it because it was a thing in vogue but somewhere along the line someone understood the power they held and wanted it for themselves, gods were real once and walked among us

The faithful of us hear the outcries of the dying men, wronged by fate and faith, feeling nothingin these hearts of remorse, dreamers in a shadowed country looking for a way out when all the world wants in, we call them our shattered dreams for we play the tortured artists well enough, this world and this life, governed by the gods of men, feeling the fury heave in monstrous acts, where we comment and interpret, where we become those who are not us, the ones we'd never be as we crossed our hearts and hoped to die, we sit like mice on the porch, listening to the rain, nursing our tea and joints looking out towards this difference, this that we can never conquer, this that will never care if we live or die and as we understand the gravity of it, we weep and long for a greater order in things, a god to stay our hand, a miracle to make us believe, a gentle whip to keep us in line

All are lies like all men are liars and for some there is a war going on for truth has been replaced with propaganda and they say it is the first casualty of war and the war itself is seemingly never-ending while none have a clear idea of where it began, what first ancestral human to take arms, the reasons are most likely the same it always is, resources in a way, shape or colour that one has and another wants whether it be for need or greed. Of one thing all men and religions agree; the war ends in heaven, it ends in hell, the afterlife is where they are allowed to sleep, these are the lies I tell myself in sleep. Magic is real and faeries are real and the true anarchistic commune is real but to find it one needs to lose those twentyone, twentythree skiddoo

[Mistre]

The trick is to renew yourself, become your own god, and if you can't find the place you want in the world, build it.
That's how I face it, anyway.

Did I interpret your text correctly?

[navkat]

I just love the implication in the title. I myself am a prisoner of my own personality.