about #2 tiles

what the purpose of repetition and acknowledgment of a soul geography is, you fear to imagine. this constant imbalance. this gastronomic swivel of logic and the sensitive. be tough young soul is all you hear, growing up. be resilient and move forward. there is a purported theatricality to the crescent victor of the emotional poly-hue. a plastic bravery, in cloaks of the social swing. Shakespearean and literary, the facetious doll, redeems the fullness of the life unlived. in preparation, in discordance, and in constancy of what begets, the life of dreams and shadow cues. fulfilled in the resilience of the behemoth, in the philosophy of the poly-phile, a mobile sentiment in a social web, in a network of the evolved commodity, a mechanism, a clockwork, a poly-maze stereophone of the unconscious, you are to fight in life. to recount the dream of existence. to add purpose and civility, and story-tell. and narrate your narrative. catalytic, for the gratitude of posterity.

but how many people encourage you to weep out loud? to admit, openly, that there is a lingering insecurity. a feeling of fear about the self -as if you don't know you. that you are not ready and unavailable, emotionally. without reinforcement of your capabilities, how do you know that you compare to the rest of the millions? in the physiognomy and physicality, beyond a point, wouldn't you feel unheeded? why would you internalize in polyps the love of man? and woman? and hide behind the ashes, the trilogy of love songs? and mold to sell your personality, because our destiny and art works revise the happy stories? there are moments when you break. you mind whirring, your body sweating, your eyes blazing, you just want to scream to the air, as loud as you can. as shrill as you may. as an allegory of your internal reality. of the confusion, the subjugation, the repression of your dream cadence. the oppression of your meta-self, believing in the poetry of the artifacts, the remnants of a positive entropy; the dynamics of the conqueror and the idealist, creased and hemmed in seams of a dye palette, a gold sonnet of the suppositions. a lot of the time, you dwell on the power of self. why do i belong to the other half, the other self? have i evolved to care for you, despite this struggle for natural existence? how does it feel to be the only lone, vying to live and dying in regrets. no one loved me. i lied and fabricated my romance, to belong, essentially. because of the notion of the craft, of the expectation. with age, if you didn't find, did you lose the battle at a point? and you lost the battle because you never experienced the duplicity, or the duality of decision-making, a hand to hold, story unfolds in bits and pieces of the solitary vogue pejorative. it is my goal to say to you, if you feel a sense of loss, an unreal self, a paper luck, someone possibly feels the same disappointment. in another world, in another word, in another construction of the self.

you may kiss the fragrance of the garden lilies, tongue tied and spaceless. and choke on the parure of tear pearls and hymns, but think of your life. a sail, a fresh. in a world you are not alone.