Today, I want this breakfast to be an exchange of truth.
I yearn for the indecency of your public nightmares,
the otherness of those hidden views and perceptions
imprisoned in some corner of your complex synapses.
Please give me the madness that keeps you
hovering around your fears.
Give me the sounds you can’t handle,
the ones you won’t even try to manage.
Give me the beating agony of shame,
the aftermath of sexual feats
that fail to provide some temporary shut out.
“Life is all about those intellectual sexual encounters
of the third kind”, I heard you say once.
I was hoping you could give me
another traffic-packed-drug-binge-drive into over town,
towards the bringer of death and “his inevitable depths of nowhere smell¨.
I don’t want a defensive essay
and the self-righteous shitty filter of your clean-cut, well-ironed clothes.
Please give me some iced rum & coke
followed by some malted whiskey.
I was hoping you could give me the desires you boxed away
on the shelter we call friendship.
Preserve your identity someplace else,
and show me those other masks you used to wear
before your “self-proclaim guru life” took over.
I need the other you, so we can have a proper get together
with the noisemaker I once knew.
Dear readers of yesterday’s news:
To glorify ourselves under the spying glass of those who will never get to know the real “us” is like giving an intro to YOGA101 for the DUMMIES of this century. The singularity we are inside our heads knows how self-adoration works. Its account keeping for our shaded enlightenment goes beyond our summer’s festivals of joy. We are not fooling anyone but us.
Many have staggered outside the cave before us,
bleeding after days of kriyas,
unplugged from the Big Brother’s command table,
searching for an authentic glimpse of the melodic chaos.
The rest of us struggle to embrace the symphony
of the everpresent collective global breath.
Go inside the cult of the individual
and shatter it completely.
The paradox behind the million-dollar phrase:
¨the house is coming down¨ always triumphs.
That old mat, full of sweat and smells used on the path to where you are knows a different tale. Call me a jerk, but I most rather have some truth, not some wrapped fiction of benevolence and historical inner growth.
The dust that’s bound to cover us knows no self-righteousness.
The social dust we were didn’t cross the river to its sedentary understanding on its own. We built its functions, not its glory.
Read some Mark Leary, Robert Kegan, and Jean Piaget.
Read Sendhil Mullainathan, Abraham Maslow, Philip Zimbardo.
Read whatever can get you explosively involved with you.
Engage yourself with some real global concerns.
Be careful with the permeating “cult to the self” that technology and its social imprints have conceptualized.
Steer away from those “I am the voice of bullshit” social media posts.
Join me for another vegan dream. The park and the sinsemilla still feel the same. Years of implementing simple and clean habits helped in realizing how futile our positioning about existence is. Yet, sometimes, during those precious moments of pure solipsism, I feel that the realization of not knowing shit, ¨nirvana’s the crap out of all I do¨.
There are days when I strongly strive to go unfind myself in the most excellent sense of the phrase. It helps me remember that we develop our life’s game inside the absurdity of a jokester’s platform, caught in the testing of a simple yet complicated layout for the ultimate cosmic joke: the jokester’s joke.
I have a kite if you ever feel like going to fly something out. I also have a little bit of patience saved for the day I can finally see into the other side of the veil you have been hiding behind. I also need some help with burning mine, as everyone we meet suffers from this contemporary flu. Come, I’ll show you a good time. Whatever turns you on, also turns you off. Give me some real truth!