Patterns

Patterns. Patterns. Patterns. Patterns. Patterns. Patterns. Preparing for a riot patterns. Patterns. Patterns...

I wanna give up an surrender to the battle against myself. I beg to rebels within: Either kill the rest of me or show how right you’re and may you lead the way.

Because the shots are not aimless, we just can’t see where and what the target is or should be. Point is a really point: Has no shape.

Spineless point! Points! Even repeating it could make you see that it is pointless to have a point.

Point!

I’ll leave.

--

Listening Deep Purple songs was a time. Ended. But the watch it had itself stopped an still being taken care of. Kept clean, intact; like there’ll be time to set the winding. I do not want it anymore. I need an abortion.

The problem is feeling too confused to decide what to keep and what to throw out. You see, the engine never had a chance to cool down. And it’s not running well anymore and the steering getting harder and dangerous every other day.

I don’t want to lose it. Maybe that’s why I’m keeping it running in circles. Maybe I’m not aware of it but it’s locked on purpose. The dim beams of the worn out headlights are like seeking a way out of it in this spin.

Maybe god’s protecting it. Yeah, right. God’s expecting neighbors’ kid to visit so that this toy might give them some fun. Unplayable by yourself. Too many dependencies for one god maybe.

Yes I am too confused if to stay not confused or just let it all go.

To where...?

I can’t grow old and I can’t prove that I’m dying when I’m required to grow... up!(?)

I have to find a way out of this.

Too exposed. No.... Er... Yes. But not in the way what I really am. Oh, I even can’t be honest and open-hearted to my own self. And who believes it? Not me. Who cares. Only me. Do you? Not actually. This is not caring. This even is not -self- satisfying. This is a struggle. But why...

I really do know that no one knows. Not you, not me, not gods nor nothing.

The universe is also unaware what’s going on itself and at all. That’s one thing I’m a hundred percent sure.

Do I miss you?

Of course I do.

But who are you?

I don’t know, do you?