I'll make my way out of the labyrinth

Inspired by Firewind

Dutifully, I searched for a band starting with the name and, rather, the letter D. Stream-of-consciousness makes me feel like I must keep going forwards, but the lack of english of the anglo kind makes it difficult for me to feel safe online - and offline - any more. Speaking, I mean, writing of/about mores, I am questioning my choice to stick to a sociological inquiry of society.

A clerical use of paragraphical grammar makes it easy for me to claim that I know how to write. I refuse to cite sounds. I refuse to cite sights. I refuse to cite optics, and I refuse to cite memory. How will Broca's area survive the lattice?

Find out next time on another renaming of A kaleidoughscope of writings, the first time, ladies and gentlemen (now it gets difficult), that I refuse to bow down to people that sound like machines.

No more pretending to be a king, no more princes then.

Give yourself up

Only positive things!
Fire and faerie, it’s awesome to be in a 2019 society.
The music is practically free when you take the time to find and appreciate its artistry, and I have access to safe medicinal plants. It’s gratifying being here and appreciating what I live with.

I make chocolate. It’s great: I buy it, and then I add coconut oil, and then I freeze it. It’s calming and grounding to craft time up in the kitchen, the beautiful place where I live to eat, and the chocolate turns out great because I spend time thinking about what I am doing in said kitchen.

I had a good day with a good amount of sunshine. With less yelling, I can listen with softer ears.

Too much tiletwitch

You know what? I’ll just insert some random pic to enable a return to the past in the future. Am I tired of writing, am I exhausted, or am I captivated too often by the bright lights? All good questions worthy of their own time limits, I suppose.

The age of intensity

Age of intensity conjures up an image of how one could perceive a demanding and controlling medical system. By this, I mean that I find it difficult to stay on one topic when all I can think about it is how exact such a system can be.

The grammar is a mystic's tool. By rearranging different rules in writing, different rules in speech, and different rules of the society's choosing, control is de facto present because of the governing rule of grammatic artists' collective consciousness and influence on complexity of neccesary said grammatical rules. In other words, oppression and intensity are like twins on a beach.

What about limiting the car choices? What about limiting how many flights one can order through a phone? What about strangulation of individual freedoms - who will dissent when the counter and pro cultural movements waste time, money, and future and past space.

Losing track of time and losing battles against meditative wars is a scary concern.
The Black Clouds and Silver Linings are still playing, and I hit publish.

Edit: Jul 2022 I'm going to leave this post up because it's one of the weirdest things I've ever written, and that's saying something. Enjoy.

Dragons and demons and swords and tape

I hope you're getting the shield
Yeah, well, I'm still listening to Drake and wishing I had more time to learn how to re-enjoy my ex-hobbies

It turns out that sometimes, when people say "oh, my ex" they're not actually referring to ex-girlfriends (or boyfriends; ex-girlfriends before ex-boyfriends on Thursdays because Thursday is ladies' night pretty much everywhere) - they're in fact referencing past experiences, because women aren't objects.

Is writing a hobby? I had the neighbours (where neighbours are things I heard) mock me for holding on to this lifeline, and sometimes I find myself doubting if the neighbours are real because they sound like fire, police, and ambulance sirens. According to the neighbours, they're real, and sometimes I treat my housemates like neighbours because if I don't I worry that I, too, have an aging memory.

"I've never really been one for the preservation of money"
Probably because I feel one for the loss of the penny
Rolling pen bags in the dime daily doing rows
Selling notes like similes weekly whilst rolling in the k-scope

Anyway, the big bus is still in my life. The big bus is the big tiger, except the big tiger doesn't pretend he's a bus because if he did, he would be Hobbes and I'm kind of sick of Hume, too, but don't let el tigre know that I came back and edited my blog after publishing another entry.

Rocaillichou et le masque de fer

Il y a longtemps déjà, il existait une roche parlante, si polis à cause du temps et l'expérience que plusieurs poissons, qui habitaient proche de la roche, décidèrent de la nommer "Rocaillichou" en l'honneur de la pagaille de quatorze dix-huit, la tourbillonnante.

Rocaillichou était une roche resplendissante, même quand elle était à l'ombre du soleil et, parfois, pouvions-nous l'entendre chantonner avec une voix rauque (et rocailleuse quand il neigeait). Nous nous réfugiâmes loin de la roche quand il pleuvait; autrement, nous les molécules ombrées, admirâmes Rocaillichou de loin quand la pénombre tombait. Nous nous cachions parce-que le fluorure chantonné invisible de Rocail' pouvait nous faire réagir d'une façon inconstante.

Les molécules particulaires qui habitaient plus loin que nous, et par conséquent qui n'avait pas la joie d'entendre Rocail' avec sa voie parsemé de trouvailles bijoutées, se promenaient sans joie - non à cause du manque de fluorure, mais plutôt à cause de la nobilité talqueuse qui égratignait leur pesanteur historique. En autre mots, ils étaient malléables, tandis que nous étions rigides mais plus rapproché de Rocail', et par conséquent choucouprés.

À être continué...