Stream of Conciousness

· Optimism on Metareality
Authors

Lying straight ahead is lush trees of rotting green a path built by me to intervine the innards and i lookout and i see fall it’s perfect what is this oh but mirrors beneath my feet and they are dipped in paint this fall is so gorgeous so vast so symmetrical and dying it’s the end of it I love I love fall in that sense by my path made out of glass like 5 by 3’s and my feet shed light on the me I glance back and see blur painted facts and trees gore together sploches and waves it’s what i used to to be what i used to see but blended in a bowl of paint and when I want I can dip my hand in and glimpse at all my pain and some funny bits it is like I’ve categorized it all yet it persist to blend and changes tone with my mood I can’t not walk I cannot not walk I am walking and the edges blur and push me forward I want to scream I just want to stop and examine this art that is me but this is hell I’d let you walk with me but it seems that my path is just so clear ahead that I can’t enjoy the present I jump I skip and I shatter glass Bloody feet The wind is all the thoughts blowing the trees and I can only see me and little insects (the tiny lady bugs understand the trees and the nature better then me) this is hell so I allow the blood and pain because my path is in vain I am nameless (there is no such thing as nothingness) but plain is the inward I have no value but what is around The bugs represent the beauty better then I But I suppose when I die the pain will spill out and people will Paint what they assume to see just as they do as they blow through the trees this inward reflection shows me that I am mirrors I am a floating brush with fattened feet and it is one day going to cease but all they see is brown and black and no sensation no path for it is the path built for me you see by me you see and it is not complex or curvey uninteresting and straight ahead they can’t understand (you can’t understand) cause all they see is paint (all you see is a blank canvas) my reflection is hell I love it in here but it is so lonely cause it is all me it is my mirrors and blood and trees and tears and the world blows it inward and I love it here (I love the tears) the sky is free and calls for me I will gladly accept it and fly above but it asks of me and request that I leave you and leave my beautiful fall and go alone no trees or color or blood just blue and eternal sitting and never speaking of why and how my canvas damns my name but I may watch the sun and moon rise and fall and forever be winter when i look down and I cannot return to fall (There is no such thing as spring) summer sweats me clean with promises I never kept I sure do miss the fall and it’s hell but I can’t let you in and I have to let it be I wish I was on the same planet but it’s just me and trees and a choice it really is hell in this present it’s empty and the bugs do not laugh (they’re not like you) for they feel sorry for me their empathy exceeds their humble wings no flying about in pride but with respect for my nameless being they nod as I float away I wave good bye fall goodbye trees here’s my paint make what you will and take my art (I have no heart outside of these trees) you are better off then me and (I know you can tell that it would be hell with me) you are better off with what you see so now as I am here forever (nothingness would be great) the lonliness will not leave or turn from green to rotting green (you see the bugs don’t expect anything of me so they don’t set me up or misrepresent themselves) good bye bugs hell is presence and trees sway as if they understood beyond me for I am low and I am a Mirror.

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