walking towards a strange afterlife.

what is it that we do during our lives that will continue on forth after we expire? is art a proper medium into which one can exercise immortality?

why do we conform?: a sample of ad-lib poetic prose.

is it fear or is it sheer lack of interest? what ails our gigantic democracies to their core? why scream VIVE LA LUTTE!? the answer to all these questions is still unknown to me, but they set the stage for everything i do everyday. the revolution will not be televised, and it will not fade into our past as we progress. the revolution will progress with us.

i have a particular interest in what makes me follow certain rules and not others, in why i feel compelled to defend rhetorical order in a chaotic world that pretends to be so organized and stratified. why is it that politicians feel entitled to waltz into our daily lives with nonsense made jurisprudence and laws?. why does corruption (and in the end money) make rancidity inescapable and collapse eminent? can we not see the price of what we desire?

an amalgam of sensations crystallize in my synapses and create memory from which springs forth temporary meaning of shapes and colors, gestures and even more gestures.

from here to the initial question that is proposed in the beginning of this short exercise lies the nature of my sense of Self. in there lie all the props that enable the theatrics of my thoughts and actions.

reading and digging through possible interpretations jettisons reason into the void of neurotic rage. is the short sightedness mine or theirs? could it be that it affects both? is the height of despair a place so cold and dark that absolutely nothing will flourish? will a flower survive the gales of a storm? i guess as i advance towards old age i will find out, when i envision the forces that will engage each other to finally resolve the puzzle and discover the truth; happiness and liberty are both nothing more than live and let live. nothing closer and nothing further.