Dianna Ross had it right, but we struggle against the obvious. The same reality that life is a transient soul a waiting place for something else. Like I cannot prove to you anything that you are unwilling to accept and the only certainty is deduced from what I believe I know. I am not seeking approval but at an ear. To hear my passionate regard for most everyone who has an honest take. Not the cogitations of mindless babbles trying to sell a book but the real crisis that is every day life.
In the abstracts our dreams provide a kind of nexus, to examine our world. The only deducible result is that we better pay heed to the needs of others. This idea that we are somehow original is funny because everything we have imagined, has been thought about before. It is kind of like salad dressing and choosing between French or Ranch. We have people who would place their soul on the line just to prove to you that their choice is somehow unique. None of us are, exceptionally original. That is the pride of the status quo. That some equal would tell us what we already know. Elucidating on a variable that was somehow hidden.
The brutal reality is that we are created to create. Our effervescence can be misconstrued as divine intervention but I am sure that a sovereign god does not need endorsements. Like saying that we know something that God wouldn’t. OMG Larry, I never knew that! ok, sure!
And how do we know the answer when we do not know the question? Last night I dream t that some bad individual was going to take my life. I hid beneath the ATM drawer, half suspecting that my location was known. That person knew I was not in support of him and I think he respected that, given the circumstances.
As things unfolded I spared my own life. For anyone familiar with ‘Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs’ is aware of my conundrum. For anyone still in doubt it was my sense of fairplay that gave me street cred. I was able to parlay a take into resolution, both preserving dignity while saving my life.
I would like to believe myself being in the final and most basic sense as Freudian and as classical and pragmatic as Socrates. I hate mean people and even if I disagree with a lifestyle, I would fight for it as saying to bullies, “Bugger off”.
So what does this mean? Well I see far too many people pretending that the Emperor’s pecker is not exposed and willing to attest that his rainment is fine and original. Joan of Arc had nothing to lose but everything and any soldier of any country who is not diabolic, sees the intrinsic value of a single soul.
Men would say a ‘penis’ is of the devil but a labiA is not the objective. They ARE wrong on both accounts. The demon is in the details and a patriarchal take on decency. My heart breaks at the lonely soul with no place to live and the idea that others look down on them. I look down on those who look down on them. I realize they had no more of a choice than the man in the moon and just maybe that man may know something we don’t. Afterall, he loves the Moon and that is his reality and ours but a nuisance to be discarded.
If I sound like a rambling idiot, your perception may be right, All I know is that suffering goes on unabated. The teeth of death spares no one but divinity and I am not even sure if that is true. I believe God respects the questioning soul because I believe he rather tires of obsequious fools. Letting a witch die was as much a lack of their own virility as the perverse notion as that young women peeing as she dies hung on a hickory stick. If you want to locate evil, it is not Harry Potter or that name who cannot be mentioned but our own infidelity to our own most passionate values.
People who say sex does not matter are abject liars. Everyone wants to believe that there is some quintessential probity to a random collection of meteoric imaginations. Fallacious conclusions are less battle worthy than dandelions in an EF-5 Tornado. And politicians like rock stars find their quarry in the missionary position and that their rewards in intimacy is beyond the ken of ordinary people.
Like the ill-fated garden in LA to the guard in the Wizard of Oz are the implacable assertions of a slave owner on the 4th of July. In too many occasions women are pussy on a stick. A most sumptuous carrot of all. A viking grabs her by the hair and conquers her while oppressing that same valley with an air of the King’s English and the voluptuous boob jobs on a modern day Barbie Doll. Misogyny in a mask of velour and beheading the soul of exposure. Your member truly does depict you and women see the depth of the valley and the intercourse of fairness.
My next excursion will be the scent of papaya that wafts from the nature of nature and not the moralistic reverberations of hypocrisy.
I would rather have a woman a lot like me. Sexually inclined and not afraid to be a women and not afraid for me to be a man. The others are trying to protect something that is not real.
The honest man acquiesces to the notion that the eyes are that flame. That transcends time and understands her more than any player could hope to.