let life be what it is, and let death calm the servitude of ***** existence, of that which is enforced; that the grave become, a siamese term akin to mountain, and we all serve the date beyond our birth, settled in a quest for the known leverage... how forgetful are we, meager mortals, of our own mortality... what seems worse than memory, or nostalgia... is a reason to remember; and how to excavate the faculty from the system of education, if not by turning arithmetic memorisation, into a nostalgia? dear pater tempus, dear mater locus... in the confines of mortal flesh: time is finite, while space is infinite... and in the death-ridden "flesh": time the infinite, and space the finite; to capture thought, or rekindle a memory, to orientate oneself, how many days after the stages of a foetal completion, are to be engaged in, before the loss of argument to save what could be a potential question? of this world, settled by the ego = ?... so too the world in its post-apocalyptic reminder, where the ego = !... of the cat who's faculty of being inqusitive, has died a slow & benign death riddled by a yawn? i am to be the first to entomb a meow into a box of tools that be worth a sworn reminder, that a hammer has to a nail?*
there's a feeling
of electricity
in the air,
ever time you
encounter
a lightning storm:
but hear no
thunder:
how the heart
and the soul
becomes enraged,
by attempts
to break from
the constraints
of ego-bound
rationale;
that's bound to no other
perpatuation
other than a
monetisation of
futile argument.
