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.