Is it an observer of dreams? Or is it a protector of our deepest fears?
The observer of dreams, an invisible giant hovering over our shoulders watching the holographic images of our subconscious. Like a non-existent preacher who we all tend to not question and who through its indiscernible imperceptible power still holds us captive to the unchosen ground and its rules. Did we have a choice to belong here? Who is the state but my own ruler of the world my metaphysical resides in. A grandmaster is who the state is, the one who ruled over my ancestors reminding us to restrict ourselves from expanding our senses beyond the blessed five.
Why do I fear the protector of my deepest fears? Their faces tell me it is with fear that they awaken love. Have I lost faith in my protector that I have come to fear it knows my worst fears. The fear has restricted my instincts to becoming an afterthought of my inherent limitation. The state claims to be cleansing the promised land to fit beliefs and history. Cleansing the land to fit our beliefs, and do justice to the written sermons and texts. Where does this cleansing end? The soil blemished in blood is beyond cleansing. The spirits have been baptized in horror and grief. Aren't these killings an augury of the tragedy the great texts had warned us about? Being a silent witness to this great tragedy has gifted my soul the unpromised burden of horror.
Horror is when you run past the destruction only with the hope to not be part of the debris. And evil is when you realize your family did not cross your mind in your run for survival. The subjectivity of right or wrong is not relevant in a struggle that has spanned centuries. In the process of constant degradation we have forgotten the very impact the struggle has had on our land. Holy it never was, and never will be under the foot of sons who will bleed and kill to own a piece of earth in which they will nonetheless live and die knowing their homes were built on blood. What significance does this piece of earth hold in this ephemeral life of ours?
It haunts you ... It does not leave me, the horrors of this devastation. My memories are fluid with these images. Am I living in a pseudo reality where my materialistic physique satisfies itself, and my spirit is bruised in its struggle to understand the deeper meaning of human conflict. There is a man in me that have been a repeated viewer of horror, and deaths. I am immune to the cries of helplessness. I am an observer of the horror, an addict to watching helpless weeping and devastating bruises and destruction. I am a gruesome man. I am an armchair sentimentalist.
Is it an observer of dreams? Or is it a protector of our deepest fears?
The observer of dreams, an invisible giant hovering over our shoulders watching the holographic images of our subconscious. Like a non-existent preacher who we all tend to not question and who through its indiscernible imperceptible power still holds us captive to the unchosen ground and its rules. Did we have a choice to belong here? Who is the state but my own ruler of the world my metaphysical resides in. A grandmaster is who the state is, the one who ruled over my ancestors reminding us to restrict ourselves from expanding our senses beyond the blessed five.
Why do I fear the protector of my deepest fears? Their faces tell me it is with fear that they awaken love. Have I lost faith in my protector that I have come to fear it knows my worst fears. The fear has restricted my instincts to becoming an afterthought of my inherent limitation. The state claims to be cleansing the promised land to fit beliefs and history. Cleansing the land to fit our beliefs, and do justice to the written sermons and texts. Where does this cleansing end? The soil blemished in blood is beyond cleansing. The spirits have been baptized in horror and grief. Aren't these killings an augury of the tragedy the great texts had warned us about? Being a silent witness to this great tragedy has gifted my soul the unpromised burden of horror.
Horror is when you run past the destruction only with the hope to not be part of the debris. And evil is when you realize your family did not cross your mind in your run for survival. The subjectivity of right or wrong is not relevant in a struggle that has spanned centuries. In the process of constant degradation we have forgotten the very impact the struggle has had on our land. Holy it never was, and never will be under the foot of sons who will bleed and kill to own a piece of earth in which they will nonetheless live and die knowing their homes were built on blood. What significance does this piece of earth hold in this ephemeral life of ours?
It haunts you ... It does not leave me, the horrors of this devastation. My memories are fluid with these images. Am I living in a pseudo reality where my materialistic physique satisfies itself, and my spirit is bruised in its struggle to understand the deeper meaning of human conflict. There is a man in me that have been a repeated viewer of horror, and deaths. I am immune to the cries of helplessness. I am an observer of the horror, an addict to watching helpless weeping and devastating bruises and destruction. I am a gruesome man. I am an armchair sentimentalist.