Wednesday, 12 February 2014

Colour Book Mind

Jejune, just like the last June, it traps you. Light bleeds and it passes through the vacuum. The vacuum opens its mouth and spews away all our moments, the minutes, the days, the words we say. Say, haven't seen her for 9 months. My memory's a paint brush. Stroking and filling all of the empty spaces. But when the paint vanishes, than what's the replacement? Could her existence be mistaken for that of an apparition that I'm facing in my lonesome? Is my lonesome an abode that basks with all the broken? And is broken synonymous with permanence and indifference? Is indifference the separation between what is and what isn't? If separation died, the enemy would be an anomaly, and the anomaly would be a modern force in hypocrisy. The mistake I chose to make was viewing myself as the victim. We're all enemies therefore we all exist in a prison. We think the man in the cell is unknown to freedom, yet freedom is the reason he dwells in his cell. And I suppose the man knew freedom too well?

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