A collection

It is more than just 'real'. It is nothing but what you imagine it to be.
It is your form of motivation; your picture of wanting, on the wall in your living room.
It is your defeat, as you read and wonder whether or not you have thought of it yourself; your reflection mirrors you as you do of them: being yourself, wanting more than what you have.
For whoever you are: this can be part of you, all of you.
It is a part of me.
It's a collection.

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You want to know what I’m looking for? a way out; a way out of this dismal wasteland of being a child, fixed into society as a cult member of a supposed ‘learning system’, where the educated eat down the pre-dated adults of what they suppose ‘reality’ is. I’m looking for freedom, free speech, individuality and a creative way of thinking. To learn what I desire, to prosper on my belongings and to indulge on feasts of sweat banquets as if a king of my own, civil self. But it isn’t like that, isn’t it? From what they tell me, adult life is the dismal wasteland, a workroom fixed into society by the crime-lords and bankers who take control of the weak. For the weak do not survive in a world full of strong, as opposed to what I have read. As for me, I am a conduit of creativity; learning from my surroundings, listening to the freedom of music, and watching the drama of peoples televised lives unfold around me. I am to be fixed and latched down by my loans, they say, tempted by red, they say, confused by unwanted actions, they say.

So end me off with a blessing, I beg you for it. I want to know what will happen, be it that we may all end up together again; In a nirvana of a place, I hope.

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