Have you ever seen before? No? Well, can it bethat it was all a dream? Have you ever thought that what’d you would be, could be serene? Has one ever stopped, embraced the crispness of the air, and simply acted to be? Has one ever leaned against the currents of dispair? Has one ever mentioned, or whispered to you;
“You aren’t the kindest person, you come off as rather blue.”
Has it ever occured to you, that the voices are said, if THOSE were written and were read, would it give justice to the dead?
Have you ever taken, from the life of another, just to be better at life; kindly laughing at their strugglel? Can it be quite shameful? I suppose it may be true!
But turly can it be, that the skies aren’t quite as blue?
Journey unto the void that flows through our most sacred creation. Intelligence so profound, that it stimulates unknown relation. Groups; can you ponder it as to be alive? Conjure, are you sure you’re making sense of your own mind?
UP in the sky, far beyond wine we may walk, men have dreamed to create places that resemble parks. Yet it is apparent, on these of desolate lands, seemingly it seems as though they’ve taken their last stand. Have you contemplated, just by chance, what could be, if we all stopped, and embraced life as a purity? Have we lost OUR barring? Or can it be that we are ashamed, to understand the changes of the way we’ve painted man?
Hunters and gatherers of wood and fire and all that is ice, love and all, FORGERS ARE WE,for just our family.
Surviving was our purpose, it was that we were meant to do, but how it sems that other things are calling us “to do”.
I don’t know much about year, other than it involved a book of concepts of the mind; in reality, or about May . . . . . . Look. . . . . Dreams, of people fallen into pages seemed, to cast over the world that brought about a world of “seems”. But, longer past those days, or one may gaze into the past, or look into the future, however long that lasts, and be comparative, of who we were and what we are, and conjure of the statistics, that reveal that what we have birthed.
I have failed to understand the importance and the ramifications of my own actions, because we are so twisted in the stars that I would dare to share with the world the future over Facebook, messages beyond secrecy.
Like people would listen.
Now I have to appear as though I have done something wrong, when I was just trying to help the world!
Now nothing makes sense, because there I sat, in my room, my barracks room, knowing I could see it and share it, but no one would listen nor care.
Is The One from The Matrix actually real? Think about it.
We develop a time-frequency every time we watch a different film, but
in some of us, there is embedded deep within our minds, information that we know we cannot access.
We speak of time-travel, but we do not understand the concepts, or the scope of the ramifications of what happens when we proceed as though we are now about to face our own whereabouts in an underlying loop of a ravel as powerful as one cosmic-fibre as simple as a spark of dust. Yes.
The molecule that touch our eyes.
Everything is synced through a series of time-movies, that show us the future as they are to be depicted throughout time.
But we are no-longer paying attention.
We are now so induced by the Stars, those that truly show the most self-of control in the American Empire, that we can no longer see the stories as they are told,
as though it is just the U.S. Military that shows the truth.
Americans are heavily devided, and now The Arts are in control.
We must be careful.
We always note, of every annotation of man, everything, thus to myself, Mark Zuckerberg’s site shall never be as grand, and awesome as mine. No website will ever be as amazing as mine.
This is Love.
This is Passion.
This is Death.
This is Burden.
This is Pain.
This is Heaven.
This is Hell.
The 7 Realms.
All Immortal and mortal.
Every King, every Dynasty, every conquest stolen taken and All!
I am now a Poet, the greatest of Them Ever!!!!!
And all I note, is this coming Fall . . .
CHAPTER 1. Loomings
Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation.
Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.
“The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art’s aim. The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.”
In the beginning there was the end, yet why are we at the beginning?. It is the blink of an eye. The understanding of a Planck’s Constant theory; theorized in the long viewing creations we have created for us all, where the end is the beginning, where the beginning is in ends and all that occurs becomes ways that lead to more ways, ways where paths are created, with some men and women now chosen. To be seen through the pictorial imagery enhanced computers we have invented, sometimes like a pulsar, a refraction of light shimmers through. It is in that light where time travels.