Route

Foreclosure. What was spoken, laid in silence, craving existence, followed in lights of old, carried by the young, unwilling and blind. Strip the venue of excitement, clauses follow suit, no issue is left unhandled, for obscure musings, uncertain details, that reveal no information at all. It carries the text of pictures, social media revenue and relevance, which once was fought for, is bought with nameless acts of disconposure, personal disdain, sleepless nights. The undead body that drags the zombie along, morbid in status. And does anyone really care? Stitch the skin, to make a smily face, we tried it before, over and over and over, in continuity of insanity. The struggle follows the flow of ineptitude, the delusion of knowing, knows not no limit nor boundary. A chain and a rattle, them bones that shove you one, are you still breathing? Do you still breed? Expectations are lowered, the gene pool is clearly tainted, the generation that follows has a vague idea of the one that precedes it, only to find a postcard, no date or return address. And this way, still lingers on, the feeling of what is left inside, the void of feeling, replaced with carnal intent, disconnection is a result of continuity. Feeling of longing, replace with pasta. Does it even make sense? Try all the way that you can imagine, to give content to the void, while the void itself looks back, devoided of smiles or snides. Shake that feeling, flee if you can, fight or flight, you remember the feeling. Sit. Sleep. Forget. Wake up. Down the medicine for insensitivity. Repeat, repeat, repeat, reap and repeat. Once again, the time is the idea of forgetting, just smile and make a happy face, the fading of light, driven into the barricade of knowledge, seems that you should harbour no ambition. Rather become dumb, loud and stupid. Just shove it in, push it deep, like a cancer from an ulcer, the dread that should be existential, that you have managed to drive for, driven by the opioid of people. All in all, I crave for loud silence, for the confusion to be over for a minute. Sit down, in a remote place, beach, a pontoon, or a lighthouse. Dimly lit light, sound of crashing waves, embracing the insignificance of it all. A route to nowhere, knowledge of which is lost. Once more, time to get lost.