Fade Out

Ideology is nothing but an organized collection of ideas. Ideas that I’ve had, ideas that instigate a bigger idea, idea that shut down other ideas, ideas that do another idea in and ideas.. ideas and ideas. A science of ideas is nothing but the science put in to the whole procedure of the formation of this little mystical trinity; if you may. Abstract thoughts propounded as an explicit system of thoughts is a mere J in the Oak.

So what’s the big deal with a certain stint of nothingness, the nothingness of straying, off living, what I own as I want to – Confusing this scenario be… extremely confusing. Everyone’s tales around the world have been affected by the a pure form of geothermal heat; in the lines of hot springs, geysers, sulfates, are our will to enjoy even the most mundane of things.

Like a lingering after-taste that bugs the apple out of your cart; I’ll leave you with a repetition of what I said earlier – Ideology is an ORGANIZED collection of ideas. Bottom line being; I can be organized.

Where does he go from here? Where does he fall from here? Where could he go from here? Where would he go from here? He don’t want to see himself running anymore, he don’t want to see – he can’t; he was already blinding in his lil’ quarantined world. Ole’ Ms. Blue Sky here promised him a ray of hope and ran off to another side of the world in an attempt to shine on good.

Run forest run; goodbyes were the in-thing and wooden doors that parted ways for the pathed extinguishers and the life that floats down the river to the feet of the seas. Further down and an army of inner hidden vibes play hide and seek with a buoyant force that promises another ray of hope and an exit door to the other side.

A dying breed sitting in a cafe, sipping on their latte’, tied hair and freshly ironed Armani’s, they tears; they joy and the noose around their necks dangle in their hands. Merciful; if you may please, wiped out shadows never quite existed, it was always a farce of the highest level.

Down by the seaside, the sea gulls flock each wave, picking out their lil’ prey where the boats don’t seem to make any sense. Empty shells crack and wither away, lying around for the innocents to pick up and fill up. Dreams; ugliness in the mirror.

The Chorus: I remember last year around this very exact time I was tearing whatever hair I had left, waiting for some one who came around to blow up in their face and when I did find that somebody; I took much sadistic pleasure in doing so. However, that was last year – the past.

The Distortion Kicks in: The Old Woman spills aged wine, with every chord she plays on her a violin, polished by a young one at heart once upon a time. Her heart cries with the wind that blows out every flicker that every reminder tries lighting up and her dried tears still sparkle with a sadness that would never be replicable. The Middle Aged women; well they sing in seconds, creating harmonies that synchronize with words awry knotted thoughts of blank noises. Noises that sound like pleas of security in the near future for once told. Fearless and painless, they stood in unity; for want for unity was the needed prayer of the moment – suddenly; religion didn’t have a name too, just like it was supposed to be, just like it was written down once.

The madness of it all sent ripples through the whole point of eternal un-end like the sound of a bow; none! The thorn grew like it was dancing in a symphony of reticulated insanity. It showed no remorse for the week and shoved the hardened ones off the cliff to fend for themselves; the unfairness seemed to hard to swallow. The rumor that did the rounds was nothing but a harmony of “every man’s needs an eve, for the morning chases away every joy of a starry night.” Chaos entwined like a ‘bound and gagged’ session going off-track; very off-track.

The Solo: Unity and the whole concept of unrest put aside, amidst a circle of pills, booze and cash, then there was the powdered lines that greased noses and smoked mirrors ran around in circles; inhaling and exhaling. Tainted spirits crawled by and flesh pounded on the noisy furniture; peace seemed close, yet closer to oblivion. Tragedies diminished by desperation, clouded minds and a messianic buzz incorporated the whole feeling of loneliness.

Cross Fader: Smoothness and forgiveness, dove feather-filled pillowcases, gentle smiles, forgotten tiffs, differences put aside; the diplomacy of it all kills the whole point yet keeps it buoyant on a plateau of the bearable forsaken. Like slipping away from eyes wide-open, to blanking out to a painless torso, eyes almost popped out, a broken jaw and innards strewn for the world to watch in a million thoughts.

A New Level: Passions never did confirm a convention, constraints never did stop to look and laugh as the levels of intoxication ferociously floated on the clouds of conformity. Diplomacy killed yet over-joyed every one in the crowd…

…this was never to be…

Coiled up in comfort in a cocoon of warmth, whilst hands play their own little peculiar game. Haunting the soft corners of every crevice whilst the brain runs around in circles like a dog chasing its tail. Strength at the sight of submission and power at the feeling of knowing of the irony that lay put in it. Facts played around in cloud of whispers, titillating with what the breeze had to offer, and the streaks of salt-less acidic water tuned them to a perfect ‘G’ chord.

Secrets under a million nerves, green with the red of the matter, savoring every kiss; savior of breathe, saviour of insanity – sadistic yet pleasurable – I give up! Milestones on the bad side of the moon, distorted figures of angels, a warped sense of serenity and glint of jaws broken by speed. All of it just – I give up!

I give up would just mean nothing but a creeping up of a reality excepted or not! Desires cramped for responsibilities, dreams dampened for a surrender to indecision; dig deep one said once, I’m yet to figure that one out! Hellacious would be a word, would be an expression, would be nothing but lunacy on rampant mode and into the sun we all like to think; but what happens when it comes pouring down? I’m yet to figure that one out!

I’m yet to figure that one out would be nothing but a sign of juvelinism on steady cruise control; she whispered once – “This goes deeper than the deepest bottom most part of the ocean”, little could I tell the difference, little did I know! A galaxy of thoughts surpress like a knife to my throat, I’ve been in this place before yet not, reality seems a thousand miles from where I am, ecstatic yet contradicting; little could I tell the difference, little did I know!

Stand beneath a window, judgement day is on a bubble gum loop and we keep waiting for a miracle, oh yes sir – a miracle! How daft can you get? Apparently; very apparently. The laughter around the future gargled and a secret life came out, the old friend was tortured, oh yes it was, torn apart in the blizzard of a bizzare sand storm. The father figure was caught in positions that would make him the Pontius Pilot sitting on his throne basking in the rays of glory, sipping his poison that stood there entertaining his every thirst.

Repent for the future is bleak, the light would be dimmed to perfection, the bird on the wire, and the differences cry tossing and turning in bed in a drunken slur. Two steps and the third seems like a stone thrown to deep waters; sinking taking down yet dragged by its own wieght. Celeberation should’ve been the course for things, a silent conversation of who’s a better artist and a toast to a brighter future in a silent crescendo of certain perfection. The missing links, those glasses; the broken ones, the cacti and the barren jarred cans all makes for a moment of solitude and a selfish want – all beneath a window, all beneath a regretful heart, all beneath a belief and all up above staring down…

…all beneath a window!