Ubiquitous Fabrications

Astonishing nightmares, ambiguous dreams, strangely so profound an allegory in life, as it foreshadows a future, that may commence, either beautifully or as a detrimental piece of rock. Wonders bring on some form of hope, hope that never dies. As one just knows, something they might or might not want to, they may know for sure, they may or may not believe, something needed to be confronted, may be something one chooses not to see. When the clouds haze, when the dreams die, when one believes and lives on a lie, when the leaves wither and fade to brown, what it signifies if more profound. The autumn signifies the start of a new life: life that comes through slogging. As the pestilence decays, it finds its way, to the start of something new. The new found glory or joy or destruction we abide, finds a place or loses it. For all we know, we may not fit. As one walks along the way, one finds a path, where one cannot stay. As to something so new, one can see that new found truth. Thinking about contracting time, diminishing with contradicting lies, one sees the waste of time that abides, as a result of schedules forces on inabilities, as one realised that voices are gone, as a mere consequence of health constraints, seeking permission to do something else, something that would prove to be more productive, and then realise to themselves, permission so strictly denied, as ones assumptions of abilities abide. The time is gone, down to hell, wasted that one could be used, knowing the deadlines that follow are gone, what one was longing to get done with all along. Ironically we find black humour in life, knowing not what to do, the sad consequence becomes a joke, with hysterical fits, through anguishing looks. Wandering so aimlessly, thoughts pondering with sensations to find, something less melancholic, as one sails through life, knowing not what they want or find. Beseeching for something worth the last, instead of broken confined spaces, seeking the solitary freedom, which one couldn’t find through any means, when can the joyous life be found? When can one reach their dreams? The questions so long sought after and found, are probably ones; a person cannot reach. Questions remain questions, when juxtaposed more with reality. That is what truly confines; a path that one cannot find. Grievous demonic storms uproar; the hazing sky, out through which oneself can impose, to bestow immortal life, why would one want that to find? Immortality destroys the chance, of fringing the tapering cloth that compares to life, of living life to the fullest, as one knows it cannot pass. Time is indeed an endless strain, which one finds and makes a grain that gets consumed and wasted indeed, understanding it metaphorically. The thorns that bring about the life, that one can appreciate the good, becomes so old fashioned and dead, as one obviously knows some truth. Thinking of facts, or axioms as one must say, one would know something that was proclaimed, was not necessarily the truth, but mere manipulation that was believed to be true. What if some new law comes? Stating Oh! Two plus two is not four! Would one believe it? Yes or no? That gets based on the Hawthorne Effect, if the source is believed to be credible. What if this time, it were wrong? ‘Poof! You believed a lie’, one would say. How controversial and yet discrete, the truth we believe is incomplete. The same works on with life and judgements on people, that people make. The world cannot live in peace, until they unconfined themselves of the lawfulness they surface and hide. That is what we cannot find. Why do we meander these impetuous grounds? Why is humanity so lost and yet loathsome in believing they are not? Denial is what seems to prove existence, full of caprice in ones decomposed dreams. Calmly as one state further, something where most disagree, and step a path that no one has virtually seen, they get rooted down, way beneath. So low they lie in all eyes and never succeed, as a consequence of prejudice not because of a whole group, but the individual in one dies. Judgements are what decay this path, so brother and bombarded through life. Everything one dreams and loses is a surfaced path one cannot find. Lies, wretched lies constrain individuality in a person claimed. Claims always seem to be so frowned upon. What if one of them could bring about something? Discouragement is a hasty dream. How frivolous would this “claim” to be? Imagining those grievous countenances, through encounters of virtually impossible thoughts of finding some path through a gleaming light, that witnessed some truth, through demeaning plight.