My world stands on a skeleton in pieces,
broken, shattered, put together, stitched together, rickety rocketry, falls off to stand again, stands to fall again.
Life is a blotch here and a blotch there, people try to make figures out of blotches and pieces. Thus, pieces they would always seem, with a tape connecting here and a tape blotching the bigger holes. This is taken to the exhibition and put together for people to buy. We see the holes, the patchworks, the stapled rucksacks, the mighty tunes, yet we do not see the ugliness, we see it’s beauty, we see the profit we draw from it, we see the glory in being the first to buy that tarty image. But then image it is, people look up to us, people stand and clap to praise, people give us what is theirs, it is people we do it for, always it’s people. Sadly nothing we do for us, if we stand up to breathe for ourselves we fear being rejected, denied a seat in the great hall. So, it’s always them.
Very less, we want others to benefit, we do it to benefit us. “Then why not live for us?” “The road is a ‘V’ and not a dot” said he, sitting high up on the chair, in the middle of the mountains, rings of foul gas and smoke floated around him, when he said again, while scratching the surface of the hairs though trying to scratch the skull for his matted hairs, his big bun was infested, he said again, “it’s a V not a dot. You cannot reach yourself without touching others so people try to reach themselves by reaching others, only to benefit themselves in the end, kid.”