• Mini Routine Survival Loop || Spoken Word

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    Spoken Word

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    Hey baby what do you want from me? Do you want to be free? All I suggest is killing yourself, I don't mean that in the literal sense. What I mean is you should participate in activities that destroy your autonomous routines and debunk the myths of your 5-year plan. Place significance in all the doubts that occupy said career goals and colourless monotone drones that comprise your current thoughts.

    Have you mapped out the sex partner laying horizontal in the belly of your life? Have you noticed how when they sleep their mouth hangs open, inviting all free radicals in the area? All dream creatures, wander Sunday hallways looking for something to do because Sunday is the worse day. The communal death of the week. can you disagree with me? no you cant because I am the one doing the preaching, the screeching, this disruptive voice of silent suppers spent alone. Recipes dependent on Internet research, I can only cook a meal in the shadow of advice, to me this is an uncomfortable good thing. To me you are an uncomfortable good thing. My sub-something was quietly yelling at me for two years but I was bathing in ignorant love bubbles made of personal insecurities, blinded by the bliss of expiring moments. The months, the weeks the daze they all go away. Only for a certain amount of time can we do laundry in peace before the devil walks down the hall and decides it's his turn to use the bleach, his time to write this chapter, his time to be the trough to your wave. This is the material that fuels the sub-something in my grey matter for the last couple hours of every night. The big thoughts that I will force to be tiny because there are certain ghosts in the tomb of the mind that should not get to speak. That privilege should be reserved for positive patterns that are anticipated to begin. Like a move across the country.

    I sit with imaginary piles of big western dollars still confused at the eastern edge of the mountains. Toes touching the prairies, looking back towards Onterible eternities we thought would never end or start or whatever contradictory sarcasm you can supplement in this sentence. Hypocrite me dancing all over my dead goals, waltzing on my morals, sipping black crude and still denying my reality underlay.

    How many fuck yous must I issue in the argument I keep having with myself. How many people must I privately destroy before I realize that selflessness is the only way? Hiding behind fallen logs, piling up question marks. Wearing new old suits and pouring over maps, it never seems to go anywhere, all the while it is going somewhere. Inside the hamster wheel, INSIDE the hamster wheel.MINI ROUTINE SURVIVAL LOOP. history repeating regurgitating the same old analogy. But once in a lunatic driven Armstrong funeral we escape the feudal advertisements of the past and we feel that progress is being made. We can't help but feel successful when our muffins start to rise. My own little thought buildings. They mean nothing to you, but to me they are the joists upon which my straw life is supported. Shivering Sunday confessions mean the most. The most meaningful Sundays are those where it does not feel like Sunday. In this way escape is possible, the weekly death is not anticipated, it just happens like laundry and empty cupboards, we have to take minuscule actions to break the autonomy. Show less
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