Shuffle
I still feel like I'm in Scotland. Where ever that really is in my mind...
It is safe to say that I continuously lose touch with reality, with the present, with the tangibility of my very life. This I refer to as "life" doesn't even seem vital to me. It just is, and it will be. I have a problem with escaping myself. And I have my own solution to escape some more.
It's in here. The planed shapes of 6 that I'm so confined by. Confined in a sense that I don't feel imprisoned. I just know what matters out there, and until I know I can grasp it, touch it, feel it, and let it engulf me, then I remain attached to my roots as I build myself and fend for my ever growing desire. The dream that seems to find me delusional and mystified by the possibilities of optimism and pessimism and realism, I'm studying to separate those of which I know, those of which that are probable, and those of which will never be. But if I listen to myself well enough, if I kick a little harder, breathe a little more, and look out there, I can't think of those that will never be. It is all mine. Realistically, I guess not. But if reality is all we'll really accept in this life time, then who'll it be that kills the impossible, and tells the shit of this world his story that there IS such thing.
My appetite for life will probably never exceed those that strive for a successful life with their professions, their house, their income, their car, their fame, their fortunes and misfortunes, and what ever else will let you believe you'd live a good life. I am as simple as a wooden pencil, plain as a plane probably. I know what matters out there. Do you?
It is safe to say that I continuously lose touch with reality, with the present, with the tangibility of my very life. This I refer to as "life" doesn't even seem vital to me. It just is, and it will be. I have a problem with escaping myself. And I have my own solution to escape some more.
It's in here. The planed shapes of 6 that I'm so confined by. Confined in a sense that I don't feel imprisoned. I just know what matters out there, and until I know I can grasp it, touch it, feel it, and let it engulf me, then I remain attached to my roots as I build myself and fend for my ever growing desire. The dream that seems to find me delusional and mystified by the possibilities of optimism and pessimism and realism, I'm studying to separate those of which I know, those of which that are probable, and those of which will never be. But if I listen to myself well enough, if I kick a little harder, breathe a little more, and look out there, I can't think of those that will never be. It is all mine. Realistically, I guess not. But if reality is all we'll really accept in this life time, then who'll it be that kills the impossible, and tells the shit of this world his story that there IS such thing.
My appetite for life will probably never exceed those that strive for a successful life with their professions, their house, their income, their car, their fame, their fortunes and misfortunes, and what ever else will let you believe you'd live a good life. I am as simple as a wooden pencil, plain as a plane probably. I know what matters out there. Do you?
