Something is missing… a deliberate attempt; a pre-emptive strike to bite or not to bite at the hand that feeds you, hit the ground that shields you from the blame. I am ashamed. Emboldened, my senses are bought not sold to the highest bidder. I dance tonight with a counterpoint, relieving tension.  I didn’t mention the agony between the moments, a silent memory. 

 

I feel like a clock, ticking memories. Remembering yesterdays, before the internet when things were different, evading the imminent doom. Playing out sequels locked in my room, building hexadecimal analogies to the ever reaching superstitions, the contradictions of school kids waiting for conclusion, knowing that I veered toward the inevitable. My peers steered me, driving toward, my fears embraced a solution determined and isolated to conclusion. This is my plight, transcribed via Ethernet nodes creeping, dead men sleeping from my losses, I am not the first to repel, grappling the heights, determined to succeed, breeding similarity, and I strive.

 

Typing invisible memories to my historic past, a drunken reminder of that which only presents itself at 1 AM as fiction, a jurisdiction of the sentence, a pre emtious blight. The insight brings cognitive thought. A rock of sanity within reason, can you imagine for me? I am thinking of a hero, insanity incarnate, a person of stature, regarded highly, reprimanded by hanging, do you remember his name?

 

In recognition I decide, maybe the decision is divided among my peers, but i'm alone, in precognition resides a peripheral boundary. A quandary of sorts distorts my perception of the minute, a timid reflection of inhibition holding solid. The resolution fades quietly, replaced by the fuzzy recognition of a memory. Interfaces wrapped against my skin, breaking the boundary, feeding on decisiveness, admitting guilt of unknown substance. Acceptance builds the fabric of desire, wanting better but never letting go of the chains that bond our regret to our hope. It defines me; it reminds me of an immersible way to be significant. A remnant of what I perceive, feeding on acceptance, belief strives to be fulfilled in context.

 

And in context we are perceived, becoming the ultimatum. Our reprieve sends tremors deep within subconscious thought, clamors through unkempt places, ricocheting upon silent faces thinking of nothing but. The capitulation drives like a five speed, shifting gears in intersections, narrowly missing. Perception feeds on the invisible chaos between what I believe and what you see. History defined in fragrant spaces, displaced realities mired in worth, debating priority. Seniority digs into the roots, admonishing the truth.

 

And so I am heard, words passed among peers, carrying the added weight of translation, betraying my fears of loss of speech, strangulation of thought is bypassed without surgery, and dichotomy arises in silence as bleak as an obituary pleads for recognition. In time the rhymes diminish, a dervish slipping into the ether, a netherworld of usability. The sanctity of space becoming filled to capacity, creativity is blended into a middle ground of viability. Passion collides with ingenuity, thundering into the space between, where vacuum exists in silence passing through the chaos like a shadow of clouds flickers upon rocky mountain ranges untouched by its terrain.

 

What happens when we lose the ability to perceive? The truth from falsities, evading memories until hey crash on me like meeting a old fiend and flying away from decency, away from the implicit reality we are force-fed since birth, our rebirth residing in our simplicity, our ability to perceive. Regenerating the same ideas like a phoenix doomed to its fate, bringing about nothing new yet each time, like the irregular pattern of breath, something changes to identify the moment. A unique aspect creates a relationship between perception and event, locking it in memory, able to be dredged up given the proper pointers to locate. Like a database of thoughts, we index and organize memories into a common system, filing away history in a relational system, ever growing and adjusting to the incoming data and its form.

 

Think big. Server farms spanning the thought-scape, holding and adjusting to the data; providing a centralized thought host to coordinate the billions of minds, and dreams. Forming relationships between similar patterns, indexing the threads of consciousness between our minds, serving up an endless buffet of information.

 

Stuck in a cycle of waking up, morning comes, shining from a lamp that sparks awareness, the black of sleep inspired, candled by a 110 watt bulb. Burning for no one in particular, yet powered by some unseen force. Possibly the conspiracy wants it to shine, maybe it’s a fluke and power should have been shut off a long time ago. Maybe I turned the light on, passing out irregularly into the closet, grasping the curtain rod like a gymnast on the uneven bars.

 

A perfect man in every way haunted by dreams of lost opportunity, resigned to a fate of, possibly, second best. The rest outshined him, reminded of times where he became the symbol, the times long lost where dreams outshone reality, catching our thoughts up in a simplistic place, a face of silence and acceptance in the midst of chaos, a hopeless quagmire of faded memories. Time metamorphosis’s into a new character, evading memory as its old self; becoming one with its fantasies, riding in the eulogy of long forgotten saints telling fables of historical woe.

 

Eyes swelling shut in casual distress, setting off a chain reaction to the other functions to follow suit, collapsing on the sofa with a great breath, easily construed to be a heavy sigh. Not a day goes by without that silent reminder, the calm of thought before a terrible deluge of exasperating self induced debate, unperceivable to an onlooker who would move slightly away, peering cautiously into a window, eyes focused on the reflection of a man arguing complacently with self. Ideas rearrange, like a stranger contemplates the burden of responsibility. A place without reason, defined to me as a season of change. The faces draw a picture, graceful or hideous. Interpretation is left to the higher senses. Intuition breeds like complacency.