The ddge of degeneration into chaoic tyrany

I’d almost call you a misogynist, if you didn’t revere women so much. I have high expectations concerning people in, or with power, I counter. If George Bush ran a cattle ranch, I’d think he was a fine individual, forging ahead with the job he was fit for, but as a president ... and likewise, when I recognize those who’d better fit his elected role, or some subtle equivalent of it ... I want to shake them up. You naively have a resounding responsibility to liberate your final gifts to the world. Stop hiding in a sniveling retreat of I’m not good enough. And you’re immune from this? Hardly. Why else would I profess it? The preachers on TV are sinners, who don’t believe. Why else would they shout so loudly? Look at it this way; in recent history, we did research sowing the disease women were less intellectually capable than men, we know it’s bullshit, but people are stuffed with it, and can’t learn to shed themselves of the weight, they’ve grown attached to.

I used to bust my ass for art, singlehandedly carrying a hundred found pounds of raw materials two miles to chaotically assemble them in my bedroom, for lack of any other space, sweeping the saw of overwhelming passion from my mattress at four am, to fall into a coma of wondering, where I’d get money for food in the morning. Photography, once my love, my temptress, and my soul mate, is now associated with deprivation, and suffering. Writing is the futile pursuit of dreamers. Selling out, is the only financial gain in the arts. You have to procure the instinct to privatize your passion, and prudently churn out dim instincts of sleepwalkers’ desire.

Most people want a percent of the perceived take, whatever that is. They need to assuage their state of perceived suffering, eh? Relative as the word is, or can be. Tangibility is the substance we parlay to one another in this world, not spirit. The original currency is not recognized as such; love has ceased to register as gold, which can not be spent. Fort Knox was once the metaphorical heart of this nation; how easily we forget what fueled this land, we ran over. Somewhere, deep in the crypt of collisions and documents the popes wrought, and the governments forged is the one detailing how all American Indians must be exterminated. Lies cover fears of discovery : those who embody higher states of humanity, more in tune with themselves, mysteriously disappear, at the hands of those who fear them. Those who reflect the truth, are the most dangerous weapons, on the lower levels of causes and effects. Violent, shallow meins can not withstand scrutiny from the cosmic orders of higher or lower; they only stand in a state of perpetuated (or perceived) fears.
You want me to bust my ass again, don’t you? You’re mommy, and I’m surrounding you, making it safe. It reeks of nuclear family, accumulating pressures to ignite in a blinding flash of something, which might be profound, given the correct state of mind. Your family fell to pieces, so you want to make a good one, removing the soulful doubt it’s possible to sow bliss, in confines. I’m honored you think I’m the one; but I’m also compressed by it. My family didn’t self-destruct; our motivations are inexact as side by side equations, if they’re meant to prove your outside, is [reflects] your insecure, individual desires.