See the zombified walk of kids casting downcast eyes to tempting gadgets,
out on the sidewalk avoiding talk of heat-seeking missiles,
whose parents struggle to find money for crucial combustion, whose teachers are sued for evil or tempting eyes, a generation that is an infirm and soothing promise to the generation before, who cannot do anything without computers, who sees benefits from grass picked and fostered by hippie mystics frequently accused of wiTcHCraft, whose main gimmick consists of here and now but remains distracted by menacing debt, who shuns ideas with blind eyes and use tips of fingers as earplugs against words waving through air, whose nation is built on airborne steel balls and diplomatic dick measuring, who munch on pills for every perceived ailment, who go through discomfort for the greater good.
I don’t know why my emotions waver like waves tumbling, tripping over
themselves. How come the things that bring us suffering are often things
that bring the most happiness? Through gods birthed in heads and naked
people in gardens we see human existence as a turning point in the
history of the universe. The urge arose that forced us think of stories
more intangible than our naturalistic theories so we could have a
plausible genesis for our existential confusion. We are so astounded by
ourselves but we don’t always choose to believe; it’s an unspoken thing
sometimes. Have you forgotten what you are?