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SHIRLEY PETCHPRAPA *DIRECTOR REEL / 3:55 |
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| We live relatively in time against a disintegrating universe but how we operate in that time-a lifetime, defines our relative meaning. The reason we live at all is because somewhere in our subconscious/consciousness we've chosen things worth living for. The choice is yours, what do you choose? |
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------------------>>>> ArrayOfNonsequiturs
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*Most everyone is capable of building a world around them that enables their behaviour and supports their beliefs. Who is to say who is right and wrong anymore when a case can me made and won depending on which 'world' the trial is being heard? {self confidence is controlled illusion} |
i have begun this task, which was before a place for my unaired musings } |
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{pre-peasouper} It started with a single question Innocent, curious Imperfect reply proliferate incessant query Then comes theory To understand is often to confuse Theories became abstract Contradictions began to equate And then Meaning got lost in its clarity Time waves continuum forward Convinced of wisdom derived From life's teachings and hapless circumstance Applying without thought, entering consciousness for a mantra, sinking back to apply its science I grab for the dust of substance And realize the power of psychosomatic alchemy To persuade this dust into gems It is the witching hour... The day brings new shade. A vacant space finds me with little direction a step off of a round bed into a round room. Today I awoke to a brew of concurrent realities shuffling their effects in and out of distinction like wild turns of a focus ring, layering themselves into incoherence. My mind became cluttered, confused. I wanted back to sleep into the surreality of my dreams. Ambiguity rushes my process. At frenetic pacing Play musical chairs with indecision My logic is intruded upon by Illusions of Real As I try to make sense of the cacophony Antitheses. I feel the repetition of raindrops. As they marry reluctantly into streams of dissimilar oneness. They become a dilution of how I experience. They take earth away from my footing. Ideas of placement Where am I? What am I doing here? Ideas of self Who am I? I witness my own distortion from manipulative constructs Who hold captive my true form. But I just want to be me and evaporate it like a myth Our truth is our nature and instinctual innocence But as creatures endowed with cognition and fancy I am rendered perpetually confused inevasibly complex Inundated with choice of my making Muted by its mass Willing synthetic pleasure give me direction? Bliss under the guise of plotted maneuvering? Misdirection with temporal reward? My soul is forced into an impasse Beguiled into hypnotic concession As a fainting mechanism to equalize and maintain Breathe, one, two, three, breathe A compromise at best or a hiatus from the battleground. Breathe, one, two, three, breathe {end} |
1.1.1 Hope as an imaginative dimension. It is an aniticipation of determinable outcomes and a removal from the experience of the moment. Can we really ever be present when we hope, when this force takes us out of the moment?
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1.1.2. Life Is absurd. Without embracing the comedy of its absurdities, we become doomed by its tragedy. ¶ ¶ |
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