The justification for the ongoing maintence of real life, expensive as it is, depleting the mind of positive information overflow, injecting the unpious pitfalls of muddy madness—wavers, reorients itself continuously, dodging a definitive moment where one can say "justified." Down, down be narrow, and which way is up, to align the misaligned alien feelings abducting my augustine mind, augmented by the citrus smokings. It's a new morning. (roll away the dew)
Open ended continous and streaming sentence structure, never-ending (never-closing) prepopropos—you know, like gertrude said:
And prepare and prepare so prepare to prepare and prepare to prepare and prepare so as to prepare, so to prepare and prepare to prepare to prepare for and to prepare for it to prepare, to prepare for it, in preparation, as preparation in preparation by preparation. They will be too busy afterwards to prepare. As preparation prepare, to prepare, as to preparation and to prepare. Out there.
I open my self to extreme possibilities, but the opportunities are not always congruent. I say I want to live a certain kind of life, but that life always remains intangible, unobtainable, as if an electrical field operates in between us, interfering with my very real desire to transcend my form and flow through the electrical forest of sound and light. Perhaps that life is unobtainable to me now. It is not my time for that kind of life. This is the time for maintaining a more mundane version of reality, punctuated by the exhilerating possibilities in the universe!!! It really is maddening, knowing that somehow you as a human being were given the gift of a little more information awareness, gestalt thinking, and artistic pursuance. But that doesn't mean it's meant to be your reality. It might mean nothing, because while you can pursue the issues at hand, pursue the mediums of your choice (and you've chosen so many)— you can't compete. Not that there is a competition, not that it's anything like anything, or even a reality at all, that one in pursuance. There's no way to know what's really going on. Ever. Not a single face to turn to who can explain even one ioata of this crazy mechanic dancing.
What are you going to do with what you've been given? You can fit it in the palm of your hand, or on the back of an elephant. It's all in how I separate my self and myself, where as myself would probably be the well-contended by many, those with some semblance of a sound mind-body connection—my self finds the messy habit of separation, the spectrum in between is being cleaned.