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Fox News

I look to those who speak to me through static to tell me who it is that I am. I share with my family, my friends, my blood. They respond with fury, confusion, and haste. We are forever threaded together like knitted sweaters protecting living leather. Fox news is our source for power, provisions, labels, truth.

I look to Jesus to complete my being for fear is too strong an emotion to ignore. I must look for Jesus on the television, but all I find is fake foxes fielding their prey. In the open my mind is, and wishes to expand. I am afraid to create the personal views of jargon for my friends, family, and blood. Love is not easily shared and I desire to impress. I sit upon my dead leather couch to feel connected to world seen through the eyes of my country.

In fragments of speech and in fragments of receiving speech I know who I’ve become, I’ve become a democrat diplomat. I’ve become the opposite of openness. Closed off from the world because of conditioning by providence it is a sweet truth to tell lies to open ears for safety. To say I have safety tells me I am the fox and the news is my weapon. Fox news is my source for information on artificial creation.

But who will we be when the future isn’t aligning with Fox news, with CNN, with CBC, with Global news? Will I be the fox or will I be the prey as I always was, as I always will be, deceived into the field to be fed to the foxes pups. I am the rabbit, just like rabbit ears used to allow me to hear and see the CBC, the BBC, the broadcasts of Fox news coming from the edge of the forests. To all vectors of the earths parameters, this seemingly flat earth is not as flat as I’ve thought till today. It has depth, deeper than the writers, and talking heads of the tube.

It is I who knows little because of where I sit, motionless upon a dead leather love seat in living leather skin, unable to use my debt to travel to see the truth. If I were as ambitious as the cast of Fox news, I may explore as my ancestors and settle on personal facts instead of taught propogandic fiction, which lead me no where but to hate my fellow friends, family, and blood, deeply woven into my lines of nature seen in the texture of my hands, in the pulses of my heart, in the shame of my gut.

 

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What Do People Do?

What do people do as they search their being for rhythmic association?

What do people do when they cannot find the answer to a question that makes little sense?

What do people do when they begin racing for the finish but must endure the thrill?

What do people do when they shake with bodily tears and look into the nothingness of death?

What do people do when they awake from being awake and discover it was better asleep in anger, in art, and in arguments fighting for your beliefs?

What do people do as their dreams fortell of their futures?

What people do is imitate as much as possible to fit with the fortunate and pray for fortune.

What people do is read as much of human writing as possible to find and formulate their own world version of a loose handed down truth which they will hand down to their children as fact.

What people do is their minds slow to so significant a steady stream of conscience that they brace for the thrill, and accept their imminent fatal failure.

What people do as they quake in the shared experience of dimming out like an elder star is feel their body as they could have throughout their lives and say “this is living as I die!”‘

What people do is they drink deep into bottles, and smoke as far down a spliff as can be smoked to pull from it the feeling of being lost, because it was all they had which brought depth to their thinking as they pasted paint upon a page or words upon a canvas.

What people do when they awake to the future in their dreams is try to lie and say it was not the future which they dreampt, but it was, and they could have spent years living one with the surreal unconscious oracle that is the inner self.

 

 

 

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Dusk Dawn

All the days of constant unchanging, I endure without questioning until this one. The days were much the same, and aimed at  responsibility, a will to provide for my son. But I look at it all and mourn for my soul, in pity the lost spirit of responsibility. It was in the days of ego, and grandeur that I loved myself heavily. I believed I couldn’t fail until this day. I’m questioning my age, and my will to see the continents of this earth to bread stories without comparison.

I dreamt I was a writer, a minstrel, and loving man. One who all could see without illusion I was good, but until this evening I cannot deny, courage is but a fraction of its usual stance. Courage, and passion are regressing into ape hood. I look through the centre of my being to find an aching entity.

Where are the symptoms of purpose which brought me to stay alive? Where are the signs of miniscule progression I created this plan to become the man I dreamt to be?

My values are fading, and my purpose changing. I feel less. Especially with the goals I’ve beset. I need a taste of sugar, maybe a touch of pleasure, maybe a sight of unmistakable beauty. ‘I’ in this context is the self who dreamt, but I lie here before the sleep I must partake and question if I am to dream much longer.

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Music Composition

If music is a reflection of the artists experience, is life on an minute basis based on one subject?

There are many subjects that intermix with emotion every day. In that sense the human isn’t naturally a one subject at a time being.

A song can have multiple subjects intermixed, maybe even considered mini-dialogues, and or small reflections of many moments, triggers, feelings, messiness which best depicts the human experience.

Is this format too difficult for the listener?

It’s up to the listener to decide the level of openmindedness they wish to exercise. If the artist wishes to exhibit a multi-topic piece it must be broken down into parts like any machine. A song with it’s parts can be accepted as confusing if confusion is the emotion, or even state the writer is in.

Is confusion un-relatable?

Confusion is only there if communication isn’t clear. A song is in itself an invention, but it does need to communicate musically, and lyrically a purpose. If the purpose is to have no purpose than the listener can open or close their view, and stop the song. But how could the opening of their view change the process of human evolution and thinking?