Creativity Dying

This is the sign of creativity dying.  There is no need to explain it,  the world does this for me.  The over population of mankind has yielded a flaw much more subtle than environmental destruction.  No,  we are much more intricate than that,  if anything we will self destruct from a self fulfilling prophecy like a black hole.

 Our own magnitude crushes us,  hinders us into utter obliteration just to be anomaly of "modern physics."

It is our own self appreciation of the human spirit that leaves the best of us unnoticed.  It is of the popular opinion that the number one market is love,  love is who we are.  Human beings are unique in that they love things.  Really?  Everything loves;  any naturalist can look at a scene of nature and realise that everything around us loves to be alive,  otherwise it wouldn't be here. . . 

The creativity o humanity is dwindling,  everything has already been done.  I'm definitely not even the first person to say this.  Thank you Lennon.   There is only so much you can do with a limited universe, as we can tell.   Hopefully,  as we are coming to discover,  there is more than one universe.  Like when we thought that we were the center of the galaxy,  maybe one day the paradigm shift will oscillate towards the notion that we, in fact, are not the center of all existence. 

The creativity of man can only get so far as we have seen,  simply because our eyes have only seen so much as to what there is to be.  This is the sign of creativity dying,  when everybody has credibility to copy all the old masters.  There is only one Dali,  there is only one Hendrix.  I have seen,  like any other talented individual that people have no recognition,  or at least no withstanding memory of the greatest feats of humanity.  I have experimented and found out that if you tell any random party-goer that you are Salvador Dali they won't even realise who that is.  They cling only on the word that you are "famous"  That you are an "artist",  the master of the trade.  Respect goes about as far as half of your influence on a crowd of people;  once they realize that everyone else is cheering,  they raise their hands in the air for a cause they don't even know about. 

 Creativity is dying because anybody can make their claim to fame;  when you look at a page for a local band on myspace,  who is commenting on their page?  Nothing but other bands!  Once in a while you come across one random friend trying to support them.  Now on a page made by some random fan (not even the Band.) you see hundreds of people making their pledges,  even when they most likely are putting up their comment to leech a small portion of the fame from all the other fans praising the musical conglomerate.   Otherwise a true fan would try to contact the band themselves. . . . maybe actually buy their album instead of downloading it for free.  Creativity is dying because no one person can keep track of all the ridiculous amount of talent flowing from this overabundance of tools,  media, and knowledge.  Society is at a crisis,  like it always is.  But people can become way too distracted before the room we are in is becoming exceedingly uncomfortable from the amount of people flooding in.  Just do me a favor,  think critically of our actions at least once in a lifetime.  please. 


"The Only way,  to Truly Live,  is to excercise in my free will!"  ~Marlo Narwhal

Dreamscape imagery in a scene of Reality.

I had a dream last night that shocked my reality.  In my dream I was at a party with a bunch of my friends and assorted subconscious people I probably made up.  Somehow I eventually realized that I was in a dream as I was talking to them.  It was at this part where the dream took a dramatic turn.  I started shouting at them because I knew there would be no repercussions,  I was screaming at them for all I was worth telling them how they don't actually exist and that they could never understand that.  

My screams fell upon deaf ears.  They were largely unresponsive with eyes full of fear. 

I then got extremely frustrated and grabbed a particular box of pencils.  This was a box of drawing pencils that belonged to my father probably when he was an artist.  I'm sure he made it i.e. him being a carpenter.  I took this box of pencils when I moved out and put a photo of him in them.  They have a particular meaning to me and they actually draw quite well.  Anyways I took this box of pencils and threw them all at the party guests and the pencils stopped in the air almost in slow motion.  I watched as everything in the room sort of split apart in a sort of nuclear mysticism type deal.   What did this mean? 

The more I think about this dream the more I think it is an analogy of real life.  When you scream at people they don't want to talk to you,  this is not how you understand a person.   And like a person in your dream you cannot treat them like their existence means nothing;

  does your subconscious mind like it when you yell at it?

 Like the people that are the product of my mind the people all around me in reality are connected to me in similarities.  we all dream,  we all communicate,  we all feel pain and joy.  When we look at each other are we only looking at a mirror image?  It seems like the person looking back at me is the same but a little different. 

Luckily the dream didn't actually happen;  right? 

Are those people still suffering in my mind?  Or did my mind let them move on with their party,  as if I was the rude guest they kicked out. . . . . 

 Or is it that when we go to parties in real life and that one person who can't hold their drugs and lets loose on everybody is coming fresh from another waking world? 

Why can't we seem to understand that sometimes a person yelling at us isn't just a blatant attack?  What if they are trying to tell us something?  Something that wouldn't hit our ears until it was being hammered in.  Shocking us into the truth.   What is the best thing to do?  It seems as though peoples voices raise when the person they are talking to is failing to see their perspective,  arguments escalate.  It's as if we think that when we dominate the dimension of volume and get a persons ears to hear nothing but us over their own voice that they will actually hear us. 

If I confronted a person telling me that I didn't exist and didn't know it I would tell them,"maybe I don't exist,  I definitely don't know.  But how do you know that you exist?"


How do we know that reality isn't just a dream we all share?

tied up in a parawad

It seems to me that a schizophrenic person could probably understand reality better than a normal person because he can get two perspectives.  A more unimaginative person will never know if the world he sees is some elaborate day dream as he shifts outward on the mundane spiral of routine towards death.  If my life was just a dream and I woke up in another world,  would I forget it?  and if I didn't,  would I write it down? 

and after a lifetime of writing,  would I even want to?

It seems like all my memories are composed of fragments that jump from scene to scene.  Once I was playing with a toy,  next I am looking at fish in a pond.  Then comes the explanation of how the entire day unfolded,  but only sparse details of the exciting things.  Is this not how my brain systematically recovers my dreams?  Maybe every night I sleep is a day I wake in another time.  What is the difference between times and places when each one is constantly changing?  Without the sun we have no concept of time,  no concept of change or weather.

 Without light there is no distinction of darkness and same of light.  Could the automatic processes of life exist independently of these traits?  What classifies life?  death maybe?  Matter has energy,  matter has movement.  There is no true pattern to how it organizes itself,  an ink drop in water makes a different pattern every time but it always sinks.  Life is a pocket of order in chaos,  like any pocket of order it doesn't last.  Like a brief spiral in a river. Life is classified by patterns and repetition.

But do we really die? Even after the heart stops beating the brain is still alive.  Even after all our tissue dissolves the energy in the particles still exists.  Maybe life is what eats the energy of the universe,  maybe life is what recycles it. 

So long as there is matter there is life,  so long as there is energy there is matter,  what begets energy?  Is it life?  Is existence a constant rock, paper, scissors match?   Entropy has always seemed like an optimistic situation to me,  everything just simply burns out right?  Left to be the coals of a long dead fire pit in the mountains.  Is the universe just a program opened on a laptop without a charger?  The overall entropy and decay of the universal battery.  Or maybe it is a division of labor, where energy can take over while matter rests,  the great journey to nowhere.  I hope that the human race doesn't last long enough to realize we weren't progressing to some great end to all means.  Maybe evolution is the inevitable taking of turns for species in this limitless microcosm.  Is the universe only our little pleasant self sustaining cube or is it more like a house of a naive child being fed electricity, gas,  and water from a seemingly limitless supply? 

I'm glad that by discovering that matter cannot be created or destroyed we didn't in fact start destroying a part of the universe that could never be returned.  But the flaw of this rule is that it doesn't factor in duplication,  what if it wasn't created but rather grew unto itself?   It doesn't take a genius to realize that ourselves and the world we see around us is ruled by concepts and definitions,  awareness and intelligence are created from a mutual consensus of belief.  Instinct was born from the unordained consensus to survive and reproduce. Instict flourished when that consensus became mutual.  Love is survival,  if we work together we survive.  Love will never die so long as death is stalking behind it,  much similar to a fuse that cannot stop because of its own volition.  Love says, "let's go until the bomb explodes."  the ultimate fuck until death.  In all reality a limited universe means limited questions,  but only one conclusion;  we are trapped. 

The Capitalism of Dogma

Fighting and War is our nature as human beings,  much like the natural world but not quite.  Humans cannot perform symbiosis like a lichen can.  We never have allowed another species to enjoy the spoils of being human quite as whole heartedly.  The closest living things we willingly allow to live on our bodies is bacteria,  and so it should be because we are just like them.   Everything else we feed must be kept in boxes.

  And how do we justify the rape of nature?  We say that nature was put here to serve us. 

Really?  I think the sentence isn't finished;  God made nature to serve us and he also made us to leech off of nature. 

We say God made us in his image and that we are his children,  yet at the same time we say that humans are born into sin, and that we are evil. 

Since when does that make sense? 

Only a capitalistic society such as America would condone a religion that instills the idea that life is the gain of passage into heaven,  that there is a toll.  Only a war based religion would make the statement that it is the only right way and any other form of worship is evil.  I think collection plates are evil,  I think that the fact that the defining image of a faith is a man hanging from a cross is evil,  I think that men preaching of blind faith is evil,  I think that subjecting universal morals into 10 tiny commandments is downright ignorant.  Where is "thou shalt not own a slave?"  every book of the bible speaks of a different god. 

I believe that if there was a christian god he would not believe in Churches,   god would not want a single man to put words in his mouth for him.  God wants all of the authority.  Churches are the organization of men,  not gods. 

I feel like 1% of the population actually try to think for themselves. 

"freedom of choice is what you have,  freedom from choice is what you want."

The Crystal K

Ah you sweet substitute for those secret,  unaccounted for joys in life. 
Nothing can harm me within the palm of your hand
Doors of serenity are granted new confidence of this easy going tide,

Inside. . .  but
More so engulfed,  by the sea of light spilling into my eye

Green effervescent shadows dapple across the dark sea
Of open eyes,
Nostalgia of reality grips me in the heat of
Eternity but ephemeral beauty still has it's own comet in the night sky.
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