And the sun sets around 15:35. The cutout of a tree behind the window stretches to the sky, sad and sorry, seemingly aware of the futility of his endeavor. The window ends, thus he must end. There is no outside world that is not caught in a frame, preserved behind glass, sterile. Venturing out into the lifeless cosmos of the streets, I unconsciously anticipate the smell of disinfectant. My world is made up of squares. House: square. Window: square. Garden-gate: square. Upbringing: square. People: square. Adaptation or extinction. And, I implore you, which is which? Conformism or stepping-out-of-line, yet again. If you look at me, am I a cutout reaching for a sky that is nowhere to be seen?
The system is fool-proof. The escape is but in my head, and once again the notion of ‘mental exile' takes another connotation.
The system is fool-proof. The escape is but in my head, and once again the notion of ‘mental exile' takes another connotation.
2 comments:
Hello,
I haven't dropped by in a while and, since I did today, I thought I would let you know. I can't say I enjoy what you write but I think it is good and I come back for more. I hope you take that to mean what I meant it to.
I think I do.
Nice to hear from you, shortfornothing. Thanks for dropping by and... Merry Christmas! (Sorry, it's just too tempting, really.)
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