Eternal Escapism

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And again, the beat of drums pulls me in, dragging both of my sleeves. I hear the cloth tearing, as the sounds seep too seep into my pathetic soul. I give up. Entering the museum of music, I walk following the rhythm and my skin becomes stretched over the metal, marked, beaten in a tact, torn and reborn. It’s washed, dried and reused. Shaved and bare.

I fear for my eyes, as they water up.

Their drumsticks start poking me rhythmically, and I cry.

I didn’t want to, this time, I didn’t want to surrender. I wanted to stay, in my own little mind, I wanted to follow my thoughts, but alas, I am lost in the bassy sounds of darkness.

I move my eyes towards the distant dream, and over there, in the fog, I hear wires vibrate, I hear the scratchy sounds that somehow fit my ears, and the new sound is brought up to me. I curl my fingers in an empty chord, I play the air, and I laugh.

If only I could dance.

Still, my feet are troubled and I stay, unmoving, as a statue of noise. I become the waiting. I delve into time. I split the seconds to eight and I hear a voice rising from the depths below my knees. I drop onto the floor to hear it better. My eardrums sing along, but my brain is frozen. I can see the written notes on an ancient paper, and I follow the voice that’s tracking them with my broken index.

My vocals are silent. I whisper the words in a mirror and the mirror whispers them in return, but no sound is produced in the glass, and I wonder:

What is it that keeps a man alive?

A sack of intestines and viscera, and the canvas that surrounds us is what keeps us together, but does it keep us composed?

We are hypothetical existences, all the same, and yet so different. Once you look through our eyes, you would see the rivers of ideas that flow inside of what we call the mind, a pathetic way created to consume everything that we think we are and feed us fears and insecurities to keep us alive.

They flow in only the colors our eyes can withstand, alive, waiting for our hands to make them into realities, ‘cause there is more than one life out there.

Where do we want to belong?

All we have to do is allow our neurons to build false memories to make the ones we pathetically need a reality.

All we have to do is to cheat ourselves in the space-time continuum.

All we have to do is exit the grids, jump the bridges and burn them, but doing so inflicts harm onto the hearts of our beloved ones, so we stay, standing tall, experiencing.

If we collect it all, we are nothing more than the air that we breathe, the guilt-trips that we attempt to exclude from our consciousness and the motion pictures we’ve engulfed through the time span of 100 years.

We have been wanting and needing for eons now. But what is a need but a captivated freedom?

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