Author: Cluttered Minds PM
Something I wrote at 1am, there's not much sense to it. Read and you'll know what I mean.Rated: Fiction K - English - Poetry - Words: 644 - Reviews: 1 - Favs: 1 - Published: 06-10-12 - id: 3030874
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Until hit with an equation of the masses.
Deformed until broken.
Sapped of desire.
Filled with lies.
Resurrected as a Thief and a Broker.
Thinking. Thoughts. An action that seems to be equated with the intellect of a human. Homo Sapien.
We are beings categorized under names. Names. Words, you can look up names in the dictionary. You can find their definition. Any word, every word, they all have definitions categorized under symbols in the form of letters. A, B, C.
26 letters in the English alphabet. We form these letters into lines, grouping them together in what would seem a random fashion. Line after line. Sentences forming couplets, stanzas, and paragraphs. Put together without any equilibrium. Yet they remain perfectly balanced, and when spoken flow smoothly like water across glass.
What are thoughts? What is this process we call thinking? Every second knowledge spills in from our environment, our mind processes and organizes every facet of our surroundings, even when it's not real. The reality of the mind is different than the reality of the brain.
What does our mind see?
Here we sit, in the rear of the brain, our intelligence is measured and cataloged by numbers. Our mind is infinite. There is no end to numerical value, and there is no measure you can place upon the timetable of the universe. Seconds, minutes, decades, millennium.
There is no end. Infinity has no beginning.
So how could we limit the mind? How could the infinite point of thought be limited by a set number?
There is no desire unless it is called fourth. There is no existence unless it is created. Be it god or man, we exist without purpose. Flying through the universe without heed or blame. Skimming the existance of what it means to be alive without actually touching it.
Left in an empty valley with no perfection.
Stanzas and riddles that lead to an empty void.
Nothing means everything and everything equates to nothing.
Personality does not exist in this demonic plain. We are put in a field of life with no end of pain. Light floods every corner leaving no veritable route to shield your eyes.
Pain blossoms as a rose underwater. Rippling and red.
Dripping petals onto the earth without any residue. Leaving a trail of blood in the wake of an ocean.
One thing leads to another as three things are taken.
Life. Personality. Despair.
Three things are worked into a puzzle with no solution.
Moveable as clay but refusing to blend into the empty myriad of light.
The perfection of one leads to the breaking of another.
Rules within rules. The flute playing every one in apathy. The apathy shows you to the empty world of life.
Nothing is left in this world of life.
Personality and Despair have long fled the great plains that were once existence and prosperity.
Three things of no numerical value create the empty meaning of reality.
There is a fourth thing that is not of the three things. An entire deity of its own.
Fear. The distinct factor that limits Life. Chaining Personality and amplifying Dispare.
Fear and Despair walk with their arms hooked in a locked chain of infinity, as are Life and Personality.
The fourth is separate from the three however. Unlike the three it does not work in partnership. Its flickers its red tongue over the particles of our being. Rubbing and flaking away our existance. Unable to erase us completely yet forcing light into unwanted areas that should remain privet and forgotten.
They work as an assembly line in reverse.
Push, pull, push, pull. Never ending crises forming a barrier of denial in a whitewashed plain of endless monotony.
The apathy of nature instigates revolution of Life as an indivdual.
Bottomless and broken in the minds of our relics.