Compelled by... what? duty or habit or nostalgia, who knows. Shit, who knows. What I don't feel compelled by is something I have to say, on the contrary I feel like I haven't got anything to say. The same the same the fucking same, confused and frustrated as hell at the realities, but are they? Is this shitty subsistence real? That I don't know. That one's the confuser. Maya, all illusion. And do I really desire the end of all illusion? Probably not, it is a deep thing to claim desire of. The illusions conceal pain as well as well as pleasure, most of all they conceal that paradoxical horizon where the two become one and neither matters. Well, I am about as far from that as I can get, as far as I can see it. And no clue how to get there, no maps, no directions, no charms or amulets, no signposts or roads, compass or astrolabe and for that matter no stars, no landmarks, no visions, I don't even know the name of where I mean to go. Terra Incognita, with nothing but a sure sense that I'm lost and a sneaking suspicion that I always have been.
Shorn of images, sleep beckons as always, oh, the most simple and accessible of escapes. The last always permitted, by and by. To sleep, perhaps to dream, oh to dream a dream of being free and for once not be baffled by freedom, just happy with it.
klik if you demand tedious explanations of every little thing.
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