Which describes pretty much all of us... opportunist infiltrating usurpers in a wonderland you don't really deserve... blown Airbourne Troopers, fakes frauds second raters scammers and asswipes, of which I am emperor apparent...
Psychopathology has gone underground... the human soul is a selective random number generator... making sense of the vast overwhelming input that cannot all be understood at the same time... a game of to and fro, ping pong, from within to without...
if you can't make sense of this World... you better invent your own. (while writing this I am watching Jimi Hendrix life story on Netflix, I had to get my own account, I guess because the identity I had Access to, was obviously a teenage girl, (her watch history was all soppy silly sentimental crap;
and 2 weeks after I got my wrap around Cinema TV, Her recommendations must have given the game away, i.e. "Serial Killers" Life in jail type Docu's, sleazy shows only a low life would watch...
so She must have realized and told Her Dad, "Dad! did you leave the fucking password in our old TV!?... you dick!... coz I am getting Smutty shit on my Netflix that asks me if I want to continue... watching a show about Sex Trafficking fer Christ's sake, obliterate the password ASAP"
I did smugly expect a HALT in the flow, and it came, and yet was surprised it took 3 weeks nearly to suss it out... so I got my own account now, and am 1 week into my free trial month... it's like digital crack, once you had a go on a Trampoline, you wanna do it again kinda thing... mind you most things There are equally mediocre... but its eye gum, rather than actually full on Candy...
very few things get the full viewing, I would drive a wife insane, I change channel more often than your average moron... very little really entertains me... the supposed "truth" is the best entertainment... how does a Paracite make sense of a World filled with conflicting information...
Happy Channel searches folks... one day there will be something worth watching... like dear Old Jimi... I remember the night he died... I was doing a Teen Disco at the local Youth Club, and my Pal Lesley came in and shouted in my ear.. "Hendrix is Dead"
I didn't cry then, but I am crying tonight... in the mixed up cornucopia of entangled remembered emotion in a Mental montage of my life experiences, from so long ago and way back when... my tears are liquid platinum, dissolving into fractured smithereens, diamonds of melancholy...
90% of all Love is Remembered. you ignore it without a second thought when you experience it, a paradoxical irony that the best of life and love is in the past: yet is always available as long as you treasure it. in a reverie so deep there is no bottom -
lose 'that treasure' and you will wish to be dead: even a memory is only an electrostatic residue between a matrix of synapses...
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