Sometimes I wish to be whisked in a different place like I will just tap my shoes, and, voila!, I am in France or Mt. Fiji. Anywhere my head takes me and my mood transports me to. I want to get lost in some place. I want to be alone. But it seems it's only in my thoughts that such a penchant wish can take place. Hmmm, even my mind is nothing but a tapestry of betrayal. I am losing my senses. Getting numb minute by minute, drinking the subtle poison of a stressful life believing that it will be blissful to indulge in such a futile effort of excellence and fecundity. Almost to the point of drying up my soul and my art. Hating is an understatement, but being pretentious could be a caveat for self-preservation.
My inner sanctum is shattering and I want to put back the shambled pieces. The squalor of hypocrisy is taking its toll but I don't want to be enslaved. Who would want anyway to prostrate one's self for something superficial, self-deprecating compliment, a tap-on-the-back ritual? Such benediction for me is but a malediction in package of immaculate mockery. Ostentatious show of benevolence but it's actually a parcel of insensibility.
How can you preach the pleasure of your senses when you are numb and working juxtaposed with your leprotic honesty? It becomes sensible your sensible senses sensed insensibility.
I just go with the flow.
That's cliche.good times gonna come