Who’s real? Who’s not?
What’s real? What’s not?
How terrible is it to be caught in the triangle of that decision. The point, the four corners of every remission. Physical, tangible, vivid, but lost. The alter of Walter’s tomb reminding us of the kid we lost to the “stalker”. Rhetorical,…..yes, its all a rhetoric. Don’t try to define the words because the meaning consumes the idea. The fact that the problems on earth have been long syndicated. Picture ‘Seinfeld’, playing on every channel, every minute, everyday in every coast in the world. Back to back episodes of our ‘Beautiful Lies’, the unique stubborn that overcomes our daily pillows. Our reality is mixed, mixed with everything unlimited. Reality mixed with dreams, black magic and hallucination.
Now start hallucinating.
Let’s retract our last liability of crazy. Immensely mash our senses and soar above all pretences. Dream dreams that are gloriously fucked up and moist with the runny noses of baby-demons. Weave through sense till we arrive in the threshold of nonsense.
No, senses.. and nonsenses. Those could be better words.
Let’s return to the Churchill ways and twart the memories that fuel our Stalin.
No,… polarity wouldn’t let us. So let’s turn to the images in our hallucination.
Hallucination. That’s our world. Our minds cannot make up anything that wasn’t there to start with. Or things that were not sucked in from experience with our reality. Our imagination can’t create anything new, can it? It only recycles bits and pieces from the world, and reassembles them into visions. So when we think we’ve escaped the unbearable ordinaryness and untruthfulness of our lives, its really only the same old ordinary and falseness rearranged into the appearance of novelty and truth. Nothing unknown is knowable. There’s nothing new under the sun. It’s all been done twice and over again.
Old folks will tell you, ‘I wasn’t born yesterday’. But fact is, we, here, today, were all born yesterday.
O punctuations, fail me now.
We have seen these screams before, heard these pictures in our memory. But no. No to the new, yes to the repeat. That’s how we all dwell in our subconscious.
The epic cruelty of mankind has and will forever outlast some baby in a manger.
Andreá Fellini 2013 Copyright!