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Still Indie

Posted on by Anonymous17

An honorable AND necessary mention to my endless collection...

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Re-Indie Time

Posted on by Anonymous17

Told you I wasn't done with the indie shit...might be just a period though

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Indie Time

Posted on by Anonymous17

Lately I'm so into everything that is indie...so, enjoy

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Smooth

Posted on by Anonymous17

Has anyone seen the movie Place Beyond The Pines?

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People will be people

Posted on by Anonymous17

People will be people

I’m so bored I might just kill myself. At this point it kind of feels all the same to me. Being dead and being bored probably feels the same way. Like you’re still, time slowly moving without you, desperately waiting for something to happen. Only that when you’re dead, at least you’re done waiting. I might like that. Not constantly being on the verge of losing my shit when realizing how powerless against my own body and everyone’s decision I actually am. The only good part of being in this situation? When you stop spinning aimlessly around with everyone else you finally start noticing the pattern behind what was done, by either you or others, and you can see the mask behind the grins. You realize the sad truth. There is not a single good hearted soul on this planet. People are vile and coward creatures who would do anything not to feel shitty about themselves anymore, and that sometimes includes doing the right thing. How pathetic. We are pathetic. I am pathetic. Changing the world? Give me a break. Attacking the system, doing a difference, change things. That’s what I believed in. But why is the system so rotten? If I had stopped one minute and quit my pathetic rambling I would have noticed right away.

The real problem is not the system. The sad truth is that people will always be people. We’re always going on about how unfair the world is, how cruel life can be. The problem is not life itself. The problem lies with our inability to leave ego aside and realize that life doesn’t solely revolve around us. Life is not cruel, but when talking about life one actually concentrates on us. We forget that life is way more than that. We have caged life in a shell of concept that our mind created so that we could feel important. Somehow we always end up looking for a purpose. Sometimes, we believe it lies in death. That the end will give meaning to the beginning. For how dramatic as it may be it’s actually quite ironic. That we would seek death for the sole purpose of highlighting life. We start randomly giving meaning to futile things. We start fighting for a square of grass and dirt, killing each other over that same square. A soiled land. And if we survive, we only survive so that we may get killed another day, or survive with little to say. And if we win, we gloriously parade, raise our flags on the battlefield and come back to a disheveled town. People dead, or worst. That is what awaits us at the end of the path. Be it for the losers or the victorious.

Humanity is like a giant devouring its own flesh, piece by piece. Because it is not the land that we seek, not the war that we crave, it is the sense of purpose that comes with it. Peace may bring happiness, but it will never bring you peace of mind. Just like an housewives bored by the dullness of her life we will eventually get out of our cocoon and start fighting with our neighbors over trivial things. If we cannot do it out, than we will do it within, in the comfort of our home. Petty fights. But when petty fights are applied to a large scale, they become war. Violence is so crudely beautiful, for it is our rising and our own downfall. We are only truly great when we are but animals devouring each other on the whims of the Gods. And we shall fight to the last so that our name be remembered. Are we seeking acknowledgment so that we may find a purpose or is the quest for acknowledgment a purpose in itself? Why do we revel so much in our own selfishness? Why do we loathe what we cannot love, for loving it would take away our own portion of acceptance. Someone must be hated for us to be loved. It’s a matter of balance, nothing more. Life hangs by this simple principle. Truly, Violence is only the mean. It is nothing but a constant reminder of how powerless we are. Be it the victim or the executioner. Because no matter how high we held our head, how much our shit stinks and how well dressed we are, people will be people. And people are neither good or bad. Sometimes they do the right thing, sometimes they do the wrong thing. And all they care for us to remember is that time when they did the right thing, for this will suddenly give meaning to their life and make them a worthwhile waste of space and energy.

Sometimes it is hard to tell what we fear most, oblivion or the unknown. Maybe they are both equally frightful for they both mean one thing, death. But the unknown somehow, we can apprehend, but oblivion reminds of our condition. We are but twisted creatures shielding ourselves behind grand gesture and petty words. “Fate” is nothing but a distorted version of Time. But Time, we cannot control, and neither does he wish to control us, Fate on the other hand, makes time revolve around us. In control or not, we are still the main character. How pitiful it must be, to watch us from above, striving, struggling to raise and show our worth to something that may not exist, and if he did it exist, why would it bother with us? We are but self-centered toys in a chaotic dimension. A dysfunction in the grand design. What that design may be we dare not say, only guess. The only guess we do not allow ourselves to make is that there may be not design at all. Entropy rises above designs and schemes. Those are nothing but human games to keep ourselves busy during the day and asleep at night.

It makes us wonder. Why would we favor the idea of being controlled by some forces greater than us instead of revel on the idea that we are absolutely free? We rather be puppets and pawns then relinquish that idea. What can be so scary? What is more terribly terrifying than the simple suggestion that we have no grasp over our own future and actions? To believe is a powerful thing, it is also a powerful tool. But when used with such fierceness, when kept alive century after century, generation after generation I ought to think that we are genetically bound to search for a higher power. Do we self-oblige ourselves or are we unaware of this primal impulse? Something that makes us look above, scratching clouds with clawed hands, something deep inside us. A force so grand can only be the same that drives us since we are born, no matter the time, no matter the person. Survival. Behind this desperate seek for purpose lies our survival. But why? I dare quote Toni Morrison “But since why is difficult to handle, one must take refuge in how”. Needless to say, this sentence embodies the condition of life with accurate sagacity and childlike innocent, yet, abrupt honesty. Then how, did we become this.

There is but one trigger to survival, fear of dying. But, once again, how? Can the realization that we truly may be alone, left to our own jurisdiction be so dangerous that it would threaten our lives? Could our flesh be rendered powerless? Or would our mind be crushed by such an impeding responsibility? Maybe it is what it implies. Our entire society, our culture, our history, is not merely a record of facts, but of person, tradition, values, we aspire to. Be it the Nirvana, a role model, appalling by the law or trying to an upright person, astounding as it may be, is what keeps us sane. We always aspire to something. Is it because we have the ability to dream, to imagine? We always believed that our bodies were the cage that kept us from flying, but what if we never had contemplated flying in the first place? What if, like the animals, we had been content to simply survive? Needless to say, we would not be here today. Had we not dreamt of better, we would have run to extinction, powerless in the face of nature. Progress is not made by experience, experience is a result of progress. Progress is but a natural evolution that we were provided with because we dared dream more, we dared crave. Surviving wasn’t enough we told ourselves. The truth is, we do not live so that we may dream and press forward, we dream so that we may survive. We lie to ourselves in the mirror, unable, not even when left alone, to shred away the mask of dignified courtesy and self-righteousness we have created. Dreams and imagination are a fuel, and the lies we tell ourselves are what sets fire to them. So yes, I do believe that sadly, people will always be people. But even if it is a mere fragment of imagination that our fragile mind imposes on the world with sheer willpower, to shield itself from admitting the truth, it is nevertheless a necessary chore. So let us tell ourselves that we are the ones that make the world spin, for if someone was ever to prove us wrong, we would surely face extinction. The world will keep spinning without us, but what a sad world it will be. Let people be people, it is a small price to pay for survival.

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The sin of ink

Posted on by Anonymous17

Omayra Sanchez - Frank Fournier

Omayra Sanchez - Frank Fournier

A child’s heart may seem to flutter

With the same morbid delicacy of a bird’s wings

In a sea of petrol

With words of rage and love he may stutter

Tripping on objects that are to us but little things

But a child knows not the certainty of death

Only the one provided by life

He doesn’t struggle with every breath

For the end is as sharp and close as the knife

It brings upon

Or the peaceful rested wrinkles

That settles after one last yawn

When old age tingles

Then finally rests

A child is claimed innocent

His naivety we preserve

But even to life, we ought to pay our rent, and the years are only lent

Do not fool yourself with what you think you deserve

As the child grows old and bald

And less and less bold

We will forget the image of that bird

Agonizing, flapping frantically to survive

We will forget what we heard

He cried while he was alive

And that piercing scream

Was not innocent nor delicate

As frail and different as they may seem

When faced with pain they are just as desolate

Those children, in a pool of petrol as black as sin

Stained as they sink

What they survive they carry within

And what they share, becomes ink

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Uncertainty

Posted on by Anonymous17

Uncertainty

Paths we may have drawn

Like a Yellow Brick Road

But it is nothing but stone

A canvas for the orange light of dawn

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