28-05-09

Could it be, that love its very self, has begun to play the almighty roll of the illusionist?
For only yesterday did I catch a glimpse of you, merely a glimpse, yet, what to every other could only have been a matter of seconds, to me became hours on end, played out as though time was putting itself on pause.
And throughout these moments, born to me, was an image of utterly unmistakable grandeur at its all time diligent best.
But all is not as sweet as your appearance, it would seem.
For not only are you an utter mystery to me.
You are, it would seem, unbeknown to everyone else that I have taken to asking witness of.
Oh most punishing phantasmagoria, why must you subject me to these unbelievable scenes of beauty? For what was a moment to the eyes is an eternity to the mind, most certainly made harder by knowing of no truth at all concerning your existence.

Welcome to the depths of the uninspired.
The heightened mass of senselessness, and the outstanding area of ground that it covers.
Let us stand and observe the parade of the depressed, who in their own right, are blissfully unaware of their fates.
Who's lives have become so saturated, yet to them, they see it not.
The visionaries of yesterday are the blind men of today, still, they're worshiped for the fact that they continue to 'create'.
Thus continuing to sell nothingness to the ever growing crowds of the mindless. And, in the grand scheme of it all, controlling an army of the perpetually uneducated, leading mercilessly to the death of freedom of thought/speech/life as we (never) once knew it.

There a certain times throughout life, where words need not be spoken. For a singular image can, quite simply, explain it all.