He’s a walkin’ contraceptive, partly broke and part defective
shoutin’ every wrong invective to the cloudy skies back home.~ A twisted inspirational ~
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Anxiety; a sensation akin to fear, but without the accompanying dread—although dread may be more closely related to anxiety than to fear. Anxiety feels like walking on thin ice. Panic takes hold when the ice shatters beneath your feet and you plunge into the frigid water below. Panic triggers an instinct to fight for life. Anxiety is a motivator, too, but it sparks a desire to flee; to escape the uneasy feeling the world is about to come apart. Depression is an advanced version of anxiety from which escape seems impossible; the aftermath of realizing that one’s world is in the throes of its death rattle. Negative emotions all are connected. They swirl about in the mind that sees itself as separate and apart from almost everything and everyone—alone in a chaotic, unforgiving environment. That very detachment, though, may be the sole coupling that prevents a person from stumbling into an abyss from which an escape is virtually impossible.
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The death toll so far from the horrific fires in Hong Kong high-rise apartment blocks is, at 128, staggering, but officials of the local government say the number of deaths is likely to climb. Some 200 residents of the apartment blocks are still missing and media reports say 79 people were injured in the blazes. This catastrophe, along with the hundreds of thousands of other, smaller ones that take place worldwide every day, makes people acknowledge the inescapable reality that horror is an inevitable aspect of life.
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Except when you look in the mirror, you do not see a human face. All of the other faces you see are imaginary. The news anchors on television…the neighbors…the postal clerk…the crowds of people protesting the deportation of immigrants…the immigrants subject to deportation…your parents…your children…the restaurant waiter…the police officer…the priest…the president…everyone you think you see is a product of your imagination. And that goes for everything else you see, as well. The pens and pencils, the flatware of your dining table, the dining table, automobiles, airplanes, birds, trees, the coffee cup on the counter, the counter, everything. Nothing is real. It’s all a part of a cleverly-designed artificial reality, created by Danzu Petaluma, a celestial equestrian the size of the sharp point of a needle. Danzu created all of us and everything we perceive, using a discarded, badly-outdated version of a SimCity video game (also imaginary, by the way). Incidentally, the face you see in the mirror is an invisibly small reflection; in reality, your face is less than 1/2 the size of a proton. Everything else within your line of sight is fake. So are the sounds you think you hear; yes, even the music. The canoe trip you took through the Suez Canal…nothing but an illusion. The entire universe—which you think is immeasurably enormous—is considerably smaller than a pea. Yet everything in that universe—all the people and places and things—is the product of Danzu Petaluma’s experimentation with SimCity while high on cannabis. Danzu created it all; even the banana you saw rotting on the sidewalk in front of Macy’s. Yes, even the sidewalk. Even Macy‘s. Danzu did it all. The next time you eat a grape, consider the fact that the same mind that created it also created all the contents of the nearest sewage treatment plant. Danzu has an extraordinarily active imagination, which he shared with you so you, too, can imagine all the thing you think you see or feel or hear or smell or taste. He created bamboo, as well. And cupcakes. And he painstakingly printed every letter of every word of every book ever written (or imagined). Even the Bible. And War and Peace. And Animal Farm. Elvis Presley and Johann Sebastian Bach were his creations, too. He coined the term “opposable thumbs,” as well.
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Once again, I woke near my “old” wake time; around 5:00 a.m. this morning. The chilly outdoor temperatures enhance the appeal of a warm bed, but I question the value of adding to my collection of sleep hours at this point in the morning. That is not to say that I will not return to bed; only that I will question the value of translating the thought into action.
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