Breathe in.
Breathe out.
This is what it's all about:
My mother was a gin n tonic guzzler,
my father a corporate flunkey.
My fingers are really quick and thin,
My pockets grow longer and stouter.
I wanted a pentium 10,
so I went over to the local electronic emporium,
and nabbed me a couple of terabytes
of some good shit.
Yeeuh, biatch! SO, there are times when I forget how to write, how to form sentences. Times when I forget how to breathe. I'm always re-learning, like a new fuckin born. It's just that those spaces filled with self-doubt and fear appear so much farther, and longer, so that I forget that I know how to fly, and my feet stay planted in the soil that it knows, though it has been scraped damn near dry. It makes me want to give a lil shout out to my homies:
{{The things that form us are the hardest things to let go, they come back to you when you're alone. But then I realized that I was not meant to let it go, and must instead go with it. Word up, keep the pace, one love})
I see death, and I see beauty. A kind of sacrifice, a going with, a river to the ocean. We make a road for the spirits to pass
over. Yeah yeah yeah yeah ey oh.
So. The voice begins to make an appearance, peeking around the corner with its tetranacular rhythm, its abstract emotioning gesturing somewhere towards the ceiling, like a flame in a candle that shudders with the room.
Why must it always be a political thing for us to be together?
The sage never has a mind of his own;
He considers the minds of the common people to be his mind.
Similarly,
the "sage," or dude, as I think we modern folk would call him, considers the world all about him to be his mind. His mind is not his own. Thus, everything about him goes with him. Forget about socialism or whatever. Let's talk about what is important to us. Not about what's important to them.
She who is learned does not know.
He who is good does not have much.
They who have much are not good.