Green is red and strictly robust
Sunder logical precepts
Synesthesia abstract
Formidable with lethargic reason
Embed and embroil within the plenitude of stark disorder
Untangle and reassemble
Dismiss preconditions
Value the valueless
Blend structural impediments

Bathe within poesy
Urinate exegesis of academic formalism
Lucidity arrives
When concepts themselves
Contradict and assimilate
Beauty of the paradox
The janus of everyday disposition
Exposes nothing
The anarchist of functionalism

Relations

Red

Language limits,
Relativism nonexistent,
The sight,
Its hue,
Its intensity,
All expressed and yet invisible,
Understanding and yet beyond comprehension,
Human reality is this that expresses itself,
Comparison,
Concrete itself indisputable,
Interpretation void

Red Blue

One,
The other,
Distinct yet referential,
Aesthetic unexplained,
Two forms,
Two abstractions,
Defined,
Isolated,
Paradoxical in its unity,
Incommensurable otherwise

Suicide Note

There is a large crowd and I sit on the periphery completely dumfounded. I am surrounded by bodies of every shape and size, of every color and hue, and I am to negotiate my place. To say I am confused, that I would rather engage directly than presuppose a certain personality, is a flaccid concept. You are supposed to be white, but I see nothing but a character constructed out of years of assimilation, while the figure over there is supposed to impregnate me with images of sexual desire, whilst I care not to reduce my experiences to such facile categories. I am thus flushed of life, of love, of any emotional feeling that I wish to express, for I am inundated with the cyclical progression of my everyday, an everyday that I try to escape. I told myself that I wasn't angry, that being frustrated was a causal reaction reflective of my constant confinement, a confinement which I must accept if i wish to continue living. I am but a dreamer who was aroused by the impossible. I wish to lay claim to no valued belief, but only to ease my humiliated consciousness once and for all.

Suicide Note

I hate walking and because of it, I hate myself.

There is an old saying (I'm making this up, I want to die an idiot; a proud idiot) that goes, the dead leaf on the road is crying. Now I say to myself, why is the leaf crying, why are you complaining about the space that surrounds you, what possibly disrupts the natural environment that you chaotically happened to find yourself in? It must be the road. Now the paved cement, its geometric alignment, oh its a novel experience indeed. Every instant I have to walk on it, touch it, or worse, drive over it, I can't help but feel a sense of fear. I understand the leaf, I know what it must feel, for I too am allergic of all roads and their static masquerade. There is something particularly disconcerting about roads, or space in general as it so happens to be, that I can't help but shit in horror about. I assume the soil and earth below resemble the twists and turns, arches and gateways that are visible to everyone, and yet something tells me that roads deceptively manipulate their space, imprinting their own banality over algorithmic chaos. Look, there is nothing good to come of roads, they only leave open the possibility of cars and trucks, herded peoples and fabricated smells, all of which further bolster my anxiety and impregnate our intrepid species with visions of rational immutability.

I can't walk anywhere because I am unhealthy. If only cigarettes weren't as difficult to come by despite a so called ten mile journey that caters to my services willfully if I bring money. Without a vehicle however, the ten miles transforms from textbook numerals into a maze of never ending banality, the peaceful huts and lawns, the paved ground dull and functional. You feel as though your recycling tasks for the sake of filling in time, a time that only progresses out of a collective cohesion that somehow continues undeterred. I smoke cigarettes because I can slow down time, and despite this, I've been told all my life to quit. It's fair mind you, my liver may fall apart, or I may fall victim to cancer at a tender age. Honestly, I am really unconcerned with such personal catastrophes, for my sense of self is continuously encumbered by the stranglehold that is modern living. It all comes down to the roads. It comes down to the fact that I can't walk. I am unhealthy because I have things I must do, obligations I must fulfill, food I must eat having no idea where it came from, clothes I have to wear having no idea where they came from, spaces I must venture with no idea the space traveled.

I'm driving and my concentration is scattered, the so called people directing their machines around the curves and hills of space are too humorous for me to mimic their blind subservience. Their eyes are all washed of curiosity, they are traveling from one destination to the other and only the consistency of their concentration will accomplish the goal. I have personally experienced this. Sometimes I feel schizophrenic, finding myself in a location and yet having no idea where I am in space. Those people get locked up. I look at maps sometimes to help me, but they always look so clean and organized, as though I am in a self enclosed theme park that floats in space. Sometimes I find myself conflicted. The sensation of driving a vehicle is something I treasure dearly, but using a car in order to keep up with Life only expands my already throbbing perceptual allergies. So I tried to walk. I tried to keep up with life by stealing from it. I would be comfortable with engaging with my environment and yet would be subservient to the nebulous play that hooked me for a role. But I can't walk. My obligations are too distant, my dealings too hidden behind the contours of clean space. I am already dead. There is nothing for me here, I am stranded in a progressive state that forces me to participate because I am flesh and bone, but caricatures my vulnerability with its complex deception.

This would all be good and well if I was a leaf. For the leaf only experiences, if even that is applicable, while I have to reflect upon my experience. That is too much to ask of me. I am ergo organized racehorse. So long people. But don't feel bad, I realized there is nothing human about us after all, we are all just animals unaware of our intricate ability of understanding time and ourselves as different, discontinuous, Human. It has all been pretty bad, but I can't say I haven't enjoyed moments.

The Beauty of Critique,
Outside the masquerade of the Environment(Of Course)

Do not imagine forms
beyond Progressive History, they say
Wonderful really in its sense of authority
But but but but
Such impunity only dulls the already frivolous humiliation
I feel

Simplicity invades relations
Why the woman beats the boy!

Domination of image
Meagre and stripped of any essentialism
Why trust the color when its value parasitically
latches its social appendage and falsely admonishes the victim?

Conversation with similar goons, hoodrats,
schizophrenics, homeless, eros beggars
calms the psychic heart

The forms are not rational, they say

But but but but
The conversation, you see, the very element
of psychic revolt materialized and bolstered by
continuous critique
Ironic only in its imprisonment
Incapable of escaping its Environment

Yes, its the exchange
Something that extinguishes at the point
of
complete

Asymmetry
Internalization
Reification
Denial