Pulp of frigid reflexes

It’s a …
How do you put in words…
A crafted vision…spread like an omnipresent painting on the canvas of your mind. A few impulsive strokes, a few aesthetic illustrations, lazy outlines…you sketch your pipe-dreams. You trace out all the elements-there’s hope, there’s apprehension, there’s confidence, there’s hesitation; yet it’s a happy vision. It makes you smile…a happy smile. There’s a perverse narcissist attachment to your painting. It starts to possess you. Your perceptions get distorted. You seek the happiness in your painting, in your mind. You’re unaware that you escaped it in reality.

You escape hope in the real world
But you seek it in the painting.
You are unhappy with pessimism in the real world
But the doleful painting makes you happy
You chase away your ecstasy in the real world
But you chase euphoria with a delirious passion in your painted strokes.

You can’t explain it.

The only thing I understand is that there are moments of absolute painful unrest; there are moments of intoxicating, frenzied happiness that makes it worth it. And then sometimes you wonder – is it?

Sometimes you attempt to, but find it excruciating difficult to alienate the painting, because of the baggage attached. Each stroke that was etched on the campus has a twisted tale to narrate. They are rooted in your experience, your beliefs. They are rooted in the nascent memories, that built a hope; some are sourced in the bitter moments that you never grew to accept and thus the painting molded itself on your mind’s canvas to give you an alternate space where you would recline once in a while and smile at will.

I still can’t put it in words…

It’s not just a vision i sketched.. It’s an alternate space of being…but inherently shared by those who YOU allow to be present. The canvas becomes your sacred space and the strokes are the people and moments you treasure. Often (subjectively speaking) it’s not people; it’s just one other being along with you.

The painting lends itself to manifest itself into an Elysium for the two of you. It’s an enamoring experience. It’s a storehouse of reclusive and shared moments. Even when you cease to exist with the person in real, you take repose in the Elysium and seal your eyes and feel happy.

The sky never felt this close.

But then, all I said above is futile. You and I live in the real world. Your painting never really existed. Never will. The painting is just a manifestation of all the trash that resides in your head . It a heady, intoxicating concoction of liberating moments, blissful smiles, ascending hopes, piercing bitterness and a faint stoke of hollowness. It's just a rotting pulp of wasted antithetical emotions. the painted pulp is an unnecessary refuge.

What we say is meaningless
What we see is contrived
What we do is monitored
What we think is conditioned
What we expect is despair
No hope, only boundaries
No dreams, only termination

We are parasites who grow and manifest into forms we are expected to. We stay dry, numb, unaffected in a cactus land . We’ve grown so indifferent to our surroundings that it ceases to amaze us when we hurt someone and don’t regret it. Where’s the fucking time to admire a painting in real life, to create an alternate aesthetic space of being on the canvas of the mind. These are just cotton candy words weaved on the hollow string of hope. Do not be deceived! Ironically it's probably more liberating to remain conditioned to the rat-infested density which our minds have fundamentally been conditioned to.

Create a plague, Spread the plague, Respect the plague.

It’s a …
Nevermind trying to define what it is; but something relevant what T.S Eliot penned, comes to mind:

“Between the idea

And the reality

Between the motion

And the act

Falls the Shadow
… This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper.”

R.I.P. Elysium