Starting in the middle of a process isn’t all that bad. Say, for example, you had to attain ‘this or that’. You know that the this aspect is close to your heart. Its dead-center on for you to achieve maybe mastering it. Art is like that.
I wonder, should all art be a catacomb of investing each and every use of unsimplistic fantasy? Are the modern matrix’s for youth and even quietude shorter than the ostensible unity of undoing? Well, if it is a certain instance like that, the cue for roll over and ‘tighten up the nostrils of my head’ is closer.
What? A stink?
Yeah, I’m here giving curtain call the different particulars. I’m reinventing you and I. All of the invaluable matrices for youth-departure and overtone corrosion were built to nag the vulnerable beast down, catching the Smithsonian in a bind because the barrier of pragmatic-nil has toyed with every instinct.
There will come a day,
When the exertion of energy places people into a strange affair with immigrant longing that howls no hour but the hour after its return.
Most of the plans for what art is or what existentialism is are considered retro-failing because we’re not locked into a box. Sure, that’s fine, from the inside you may get a timeline of how long you’ve been in the box (due to all the marks and sweat) but you wont see reality unless suffering beautifully inside as well as without become the mixing bowl for your discovery.
Mythical plantations for drama are seen every place. Mythical tangents for unity are seen in that very space too. Every process is like ornate relationship and opportunity leaflet, designing yet a new adjustment, a new invitation and a provocative goal. The starting point should be a delicate entrance, dreamed. The physical membrane of the process takes-in the spell of irony and unwritten speech.
The overgrown inlet of a sinking auto morphing is developed over the cycle of the ‘seeming’ and the ‘cutting’.
But, when the tightened script of avenues and meltdowns structures the story, the nude situations of honesty or closeness come alive.
Has this deeper cast of affairs seen its primal dissident and believing is art?
Well, starting to remember now why I always like the stream of consciousness to art. A process is what makes art the quietest hobby in the world. All one has to do is flow.
Then, is not the conformity to migraines and passivity a novel wonder of the dialectical answering and reflecting the trouble with tall order and muscle distention? For those that think they care about art consciousness and the way it truly lends support for victimized feelings, test yourself to really communicate those novel ideas even when you’re not communicating.
For this, we will suffer.
For this we will discover.
Like cauldron untouched,
Seething babies of ripened levitation.
I leave a new baby born, as if to say yes to the form of expression.
As if to tickle the wind with a weapon.
Greet the slow sign of pressuring dread with an uncanny bark for intellectualism.
The sun lifts through the branches, even discovering arms and legs out there.
Passion invites itself. The whim of the inexperienced gift stretches out to clear your space. A very still child is born.
Confused but naked.
These are not reflections, these are reflexes. Not doldrums but impressions. Empty and mute. Says nothing of the rocket science of pretending to be something you are not. And yet, at the same time, missing dances with each member of the society.
The niche has been rescued.