Or not being human?
Ever feel like you're trapped in the vessel of a primitive animal? A being that eats, excretes, kills, dies, breeds, buys, sells, ages, changes.
Where is the magic when one is disgusted with everything? Especially that most magical of them: the faculty of love. The essence of life, where light and dark meet, spirit and matter, substance and form, past and future, zero and zero forming the infinities... All reduced to rejection, sorrrow, and betrayal.
Especially for the eternal outcast that doesn't fit in anywhere. One wonders why they are living as a human at all. Just a temple for the imagination, a prison for the mind, bound up in a world of food where all things are vain and transitory. Day after day it's the same, watching reruns of my life, hoping for new episodes, wondering where the hell did the writers go...
Wondering if there's something beyond all this. The place of single sex aliens and holographic spirits. The place of one, having no beginning and no end. No father, no son, no mother, no daughter, no heartbeat, a place outside the universe of eternal space and energy. A twisted blackhole big bang where light is darkness turned inside out.
Always imagining, knowing it could be so much better. Refusing to just be the sum of ones outward existence. Feeling nostalgia and the old age of experiences made, mistakes learned from, and knowing what does and does not work. Forever longing and dreaming, yet unable to be. Knowing sorrow, but knowing that it's worth it, even just for the dream. Happy just to retain the vision of what might've been.
This reality is what? It's not even fit for an oafish jester. This isn't me. Why did you give this to me? What do you expect me to do with it? After all whats outside the matrix, but a dark world of heartless machines? It is where friends are fiends and lovers are losers. Forever wondering if anything will ever be real, if theres something significant left undone that could possibly move me, or change me. Hoping it will more then wasting away, and slow dying all alone.
Is this life? Or a timeout booth with an eternity to think things over, all is sorrow, shall I meet the Buddha here? Sometimes when it gets to be too much, I drift to sleep feeling like I've got a knife stuck in my gut; yet I can't take it out lest I bleed to death. Mortified it remains, wondering at the part of me that lives and wonders back at what has died; knowing it will never live again...
Ever feel like you're trapped in the vessel of a primitive animal? A being that eats, excretes, kills, dies, breeds, buys, sells, ages, changes.
Where is the magic when one is disgusted with everything? Especially that most magical of them: the faculty of love. The essence of life, where light and dark meet, spirit and matter, substance and form, past and future, zero and zero forming the infinities... All reduced to rejection, sorrrow, and betrayal.
Especially for the eternal outcast that doesn't fit in anywhere. One wonders why they are living as a human at all. Just a temple for the imagination, a prison for the mind, bound up in a world of food where all things are vain and transitory. Day after day it's the same, watching reruns of my life, hoping for new episodes, wondering where the hell did the writers go...
Wondering if there's something beyond all this. The place of single sex aliens and holographic spirits. The place of one, having no beginning and no end. No father, no son, no mother, no daughter, no heartbeat, a place outside the universe of eternal space and energy. A twisted blackhole big bang where light is darkness turned inside out.
Always imagining, knowing it could be so much better. Refusing to just be the sum of ones outward existence. Feeling nostalgia and the old age of experiences made, mistakes learned from, and knowing what does and does not work. Forever longing and dreaming, yet unable to be. Knowing sorrow, but knowing that it's worth it, even just for the dream. Happy just to retain the vision of what might've been.
This reality is what? It's not even fit for an oafish jester. This isn't me. Why did you give this to me? What do you expect me to do with it? After all whats outside the matrix, but a dark world of heartless machines? It is where friends are fiends and lovers are losers. Forever wondering if anything will ever be real, if theres something significant left undone that could possibly move me, or change me. Hoping it will more then wasting away, and slow dying all alone.
Is this life? Or a timeout booth with an eternity to think things over, all is sorrow, shall I meet the Buddha here? Sometimes when it gets to be too much, I drift to sleep feeling like I've got a knife stuck in my gut; yet I can't take it out lest I bleed to death. Mortified it remains, wondering at the part of me that lives and wonders back at what has died; knowing it will never live again...
