The end of story telling
This is not how the story ends...
The proboscis of wisdom sucks upon a succulent decomposition of potential, whilst a narcissistic array of grim facades ejaculates acid in sheer hedonism.
The failure, even to fail, exponentially subtracts the negativity from the infinity of hopelessness thus strengthening the alliance of hereditary perception of monumental insignificance.
And yet, the wisdom of the one, coupled with the wisdom of the norm, entraps the divinity of doubt and sends it into a vicious cycle of falsified justification.
The mind, an introvert apprehension of cosmogony , devolves into a split self condition and multiplies keeping track of the righteous path by leaving behind bread crumbs and body parts. It gradually becomes oblivious to the ravens festering the periphery of the journey annihilating the woes and laments that served as road maps to sanity.
Thus the self shifts into an emancipated perpetuity birthing ephemeral liberations.
This is not the story of an ending.
This is the archetypal rawness of the blank slate self - a breather still enslaved in a nebula of carcinogenic DNA blueprints- futilely grasping for air whilst waiting for the deity to ascent to its human form, materialising back into the nothingness that embodies all that is and all that is beyond that.
This is the story of the beginning of festive times...
of voiceless recitations and fragrant abysses,
of nights harvesting back the words we exiled,
and posting bounties on fugitive feelings.
This is the reanimation of time from standstill to forward and the re-acquaintance with Pandora’s ugliest stepchild – hope.
Errare humanum est... the paradox is but obvious in its self-negation... there’s no end...there’s no story...
Paralogy of such a magnitude…you have to believe ...