You say you’re the author of your thoughts
But you don’t know what the next one will be
So if I were to erase your recollections
And insert all my life into you
Wouldn’t you be me?


Even the simplest daily choices would change
If your beginning wouldn’t have been the same
You wouldn’t be here today

I have an apple and a chocolate bar and I offer it to you
“If you really believe you have a choice, pick one of the two.”
You pick the apple and say it was simply your decision
A decision is a result of tradition, religion, and false intuition

“But I can still choose!”
Isn’t that how ideas are new?

I want you to stop
And make a color
Make a color that is new
And hasn’t been discovered
Make a color without mixing pre-existing colors
Now tell me your idea is original
Tell me your desires come from you
You are what you decided to become
You can do what you choose
But where did YOUR desires come from?


You are not living in these moments
You are not controlling these moments
You are the moment
You are not existing
You are not controlling you’re existence
You are the existence

Perspectives
are not the same anymore
Judgements
Who really belongs in a cell
Jesus, religion, heaven
Who deserves to go to hell?
How can we judge
How can we be blamed
When our events created us into who we are today

It is self evident to everyone of us that you can not be
what you perceive
I am not that wall
I am not that chair

You hear you thoughts
You see YOUR body
I am not me
You are not you
Even this is not something you believe
Because even that is perceived

Surprisingly, I don’t feel pessimistic
I feel like the world around me is more realistic
To the truth
And I am not where I belong
I am not even sure what this is supposed to mean
This was something unusual to me
But I feel a certain clarity
Awareness of my lack of freedom
makes me feel free
This causal state of our mentality
This
Is
An
Art

Who are you?
Nothing.
What is true?
A clay *** isn’t useful for the clay it is made of
Or the color
Or the texture
Or the size
A clay *** is useful for the emptiness it holds inside.