I'm asking for a revolution of my dreams. to sleep in a basin of new ideas. progress and assertion and all the things I need to feel alive when I'm awake and asleep when I am in suspended consciousness. homo sapien sapiens have this inert ability to derive everything they need from everything around them. self sustainability is obsolete. post modern world is nothing more than ideas metamorphosed into some other version of its original self into another remix of its newest update and it never ends. It doesn't stop there.
What did this world do before ideas belonged to someone else? Where did it all begin? How did it begin? The first thought, the first creative thought...the first sign of hindsight...the very first song. The aboriginal expression of emotion and of inner existence. Who are we now? How do we define ourselves?
There's this thing we do called "communication." but really it's just "regurgitation."
The literal definition of regurgitation often pertains to puking up your food. Food is a thing creatures use as fuel to stay alive and function. Fuel is a thing cars need to remain mobile. Cars are a thing humans use to become mobile. Humans are a thing Earth doesn't need.
We are at the bottom of the chain, no matter which way we look at it. Who the fuck needs US?
Shit, I have some serious pessimistic doctrines.
Good thing we have almost wrapped day 12 of filming. I can finally get to sleep at 8am.
Mother Earth does need us.
ReplyDeleteWe will help her hasten the healing process.
To enhance her health, and aid in comfort.
Otherwise, without us, her children,
She is robbed of her joy, alone in the Universe,
Who but the distant Stars will watch over her?
And her confidante the Moon?
Even the Creator would cry,
Over the case of the missing children.
Who will replace the joy she knew in raising her children?
An orphaned race, a reckless abandonment.
Her scars will endure, 'til memory serves,
But then she will begin to forget.
To erase the pains, to lighten the load,
A process of healing, but also of defense,
Her heart shuts down, it closes off corridors,
Until she is no more but a memory of herself.
Incapacitated by remorse, without hope of return,
To the resilient opal and emerald orb that she was once,
The peaks and valleys of her life,
Teeming with energies and hopes for her progeny,
Now, a ghost of late,
But the clouds of her youth still float,
The dreams that were, still yearning a chance.
Silent they are, only visible by distant Stars,
And the visiting Moon.
Her children are gone.
The barren mother, who was of vigor,
Now demented by grief, inconsolable by most,
The gifts that were given, taken back away.
To where did her children run or hide?
Why have they abandoned their Mother?
Through their existence she prevailed,
She maintained the upper-hand,
Until they left without a trace, with not even a goodbye,
What Mother doesn't suffer the scratches from an Infant?
And what Mother doesn't punish her children?
The cycles of scolding and demands,
The children who want,
The mother who protects.
Soon we will set sail for the stars,
Leaving her restored,
With blessings on our voyage.
But the ailing Mother needs us now.
Just as we need her.
We only have one Mother.
On whose known planet but ours can we grow food?
To gaze upon the other fellow inhabitants,
The spectacles of wonderment,
And care for each other,
'Til we set sail for the stars.
^that's brilliant
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