SOMEWHERE - talking to the walls

talking to the walls

And so, here I’m now, somewhere, talking to the walls, and thus, it may be going like this, “I think that you think that I think that you may be thinking about, I, you, the others, this world, that world, this life, that life that ain’t nothing more than a big illusion”, etc, and that may be true, plus, here we are, all now making uncountable plans and calculations to save ourselves and deceive the world, and then, again, as the shadows evaporate, I do not know anymore who am I and what the fuck I’m doing here. Even so, now, a confidence… once they told me that my grandfather used to be called “the sleeping beauty”, although he died in a motorcycle accident, front wheel against front wheel, both of the drivers were drunk, and, one died instantly and the other, well, the other got mad for life… but, let’s not talk about that… advancing, so, yes, we may need the delirious in order to transcend the duality of things, but also, I advise you, do not stay too much time in the middle ground, coz, with the time, that may bring you some misunderstandings, I mean, if you keep preceding like that you may end up being bait for moss-troopers, and these so-said  creatures may try to kidnap your soul and take your body to the court in order to exploit all your suppressed feelings. I mean, sometimes you may say, “I feel so full of all this shit!”, but we know, all the times you have escaped already, in all possible directions, and so, now, escaping again, but to where? This is… some may say, “wherever you go, people's problems will be kinda the same”. And, in fact, people create problems in order to entertain themselves by solving these same problems. So, my problem, their problem, your problem, I noticed, is to put the feet by the hands when it comes the time to sell the fish... And yeah, maybe we can say, right now, once junky, junky for life… thus, yes-yes Dona Antónia,  at this point the world has just become a huge open-air wasteland filled with burnt sand, shards and enigmatic worms wandering along the valves of shaggy hearts atrophied by the lunar impatience and eagerness for medea protagonism… And, therefore, here we are, still swirling over a thorny and mouldy ground, ejaculating anachronistic fluids in various directions and senses... fluids that can corrupt both the sacred will of understanding and the very bones of the office... but it will be nothing... you must relax... be calm... coz, as you sing they may dance... this is, we may continue with this little theatre... no need to force it, coz, the built-in radiant radiator of this message generator will make sure of absorbing only the necessary lot that will permit the potentialization of our fortunate fortune now. And so, at this point, as I may approach some of these people like you and try to get into some kind of conversations. I may begin by asking things like "Who are you"; "Where are you from"; "where are you going"; "What brings you here," and so on, and well, the answers I’m getting are ambiguous, some even obtuse, others more mundane. The thing is. We all distrust everyone. Brotherhood is just pretension. So, effectively, we all distrust everything coz we are all atrophied by the idea of having a future. All bogged down in a blue virtual world, now walking the dogs around some fake lake, eating narcotic goodies on the way. This is, right now, all suffering from some sort of hypothetical crisis.  And plus, that mountain that already gave birth to I don't know how many rats and then, what is beyond this synthetic body, what is beyond that avenue, what is beyond those toponymies, what is beyond these equidistant skies full of fearful mathematical equations, crazy bitches and promiscuous radiation… this is, you can take advantage of all this/that bustle… but, now, just try to think about all these trees that grow old and drop their foliage and fruits over abandoned benches where you may sit one of those times massaging your ankles. This is, you know that we are all matter, and plus, this ventricle is like an atomic bomb, thus, yeah, we are all doomed to give and to receive... this is, the love for the illusion is just like that, a sandstorm where deaf-mutes may meet. Plus, all these benedictine synthetic flowers that shade the unprecedented intelligence of the bewildered epicurean and, all that extracurricular meditations and studies on the archetypal smile of the poet… and, this is, no matter how many mountains you've already conquered or how many inhospitable valleys you've already crossed. No matter how many bitches you've already trapped or how many mosquitoes you've already idolised, you know, the purple light is always here, absorbing the meaning of everything, and so, the universe never satisfies itself... thus, as it goes, what we may see around, is people eating mandalas in the morning, people playing with their machinery after lunch, people investing their lives in probability games in order to keep alive the flame of seduction and despair. And without knowing how, they put us in this ghost train, they give us a little book with the rights and duties, and yeah, we have to sort it out, and well, as it goes, we may come to the conclusion that words are just a bunch of abstractions, a grammatical nest where spiteful rattlesnakes may give birth to an extent number of poisoned toads now falling down over thorny cliffs, and their mucus spilling through the rocks of abstention, this is, material and non-material memories of realisation. And then, there comes these first few seconds of rational decentralisation in which a person still does not know who is what or what is who. But, fuck that now, I no longer want this conversation about the abyss, at least today. So let's change the concept. This is, once inside the bus, I pick up a ragged newspaper from an empty seat and start to read about the wedding of Oceanus and Tetis. And then, I open the window and throw it out, and as it goes, the smell of resin comes in to refresh our mind. And, at some point, I’m already out, already taking off my clothes to better appreciate all this… and so, once naked, I roll over the gorse and even try suck some moss on the granite stones, and then, well, then I’m already going through the openness of some kind of black desert,  this is, I go there to visit friends of friends, and some enemies also. And as it goes, here I’m, already trying to re-conciliate with the family of my double, this is, I want no more resentment. But, let’s forget all about the abstractions of the blood momentarily. One two three. The plot is loose. And so, right now, be ready, coz, if you show me your garbage, I'll tell you who you are. Thus, let's have a picnic. Let's talk about the truth while rolling over the grass.  Coz it’s the time. The time the time the time. No more waiting. No more promises. I mean, let’s just throw the ashes of the past over the carpet and roll it over. For the world doesn't  need to be explained. There is a sun that never sets and the voice inside the cash machine will always make you think about eternity. This is, the men's main job is, and always will be,  to help the machine stay healthy and productive. And so, in the morning a hunter from the government may come by my/your side and touch your/my nape with the point of a barrel. But you/I do not want to wake up, this is, you/I just want to keep dreaming with bloated stars falling from the sky, and so, now another talk, I mean, I know you are there, you always been, Zzz, this is, I know you don't move so much lastly, Zzz, we know, you go here and there, but, Zzz, you always come back, coz, for you, Zzz, the circle is never complete, the circle is never accomplished, plus, Zzz, all this semiotic parabolas,  all that inverted triangulates Zzz, shaking our embarrassment now… this is,  at some point you awake up and you realize the stupidity of this life and others, I mean, now, there you are, watching through the glass window of your hut, a man outside, picking rubbish from your own container, and so, yeah, this man, it may be me, it may be your own double, now here eating your leftovers, and soon, it may come to your door and preach, this is, it will come to tell you who you are, to tell you everything about what we all doing here right now, and plus, how much it will all cost... and you know, I may be that man, and you, well, you are just this fucking white wall with moving spots… that’s it.