windbreaker

Some distant, icy trance has my eyes fixated, in equal servings shimmer and lament, at urban simulcara the Earth manifested into sprawling, concrete prisons. I gaze at the dazzle of a thousand stars inside a nightfall over dying streetlamps and outposts which might serve the imperial army of a third world nation. Where I look at is the reflection of a thousand times two years of constantly learning from our mistakes… and its precarious success. It is glamourous and it is constantly growing for the better or worse. The latter of which is where I stand, with a twilight shadow casting over locales such as the fifth most popular gas station on the street or the pizza place people with self-abandonment issues go to. This is where the people who dress okay, and not gallant, go to. This is the outpost of dreams which rolled in with a tide of failure after the urban simulations of a better tomorrow naturally failed. As this reigon could not defend itself against the commodified spectacles of living, all of their representatives threw a seed from the coast and it indulged itself in the dirt of honest ancestors graves so it may flourish here. 

The outpost represents expendable buildings of worth and steadfast to common wealth, hard working detained whom cannot allow their.. full.. energy anymore against a heavy wind and need to sleep in this constant paradigm shift in reality. Oftentimes until death. A salvation and sanctuary for those who couldn't face life's infinite gale. An outpost with coincidentally blocks wind from the simulcara. And the outpost is in fact only a few blocks from the simulcara which will dance, and dance more, for the media which points the everlasting glass eye of providence at its precise coordinate. A shrieking but modest violin chord hymns like delaphidated chapels over this outpost as the unaware people within are tearfully fortunate compared to the scholars within on one limb and no heart.

I had hoped I wouldn't feel this way anymore, no less staring it all from the glass proscenium arch of a foreign restaraunt, but the precarious tide from failed simulations toward success rise as unemployment undertoes. If the pattern supplements itself well enough, I may bust out crying in public where as the people in this restaraunt won't have any idea why while cozy in dollar store cloth. Fashion is being replaced by ambigous fashion as the standard of beauty is slowly augmenting itself, at the immediate sprint of a glacier, to dystopian times. Certain select jackets which have as much en vogue and lustiere as that of a three legged dog smiling down Malibu Avenue. That is the notion however : In such environments where the tangerine is in the sky and its flow of milk is in cherry finished chairs, these woven garments have no identity aside from loner with plenty of illusion. Yet, to the loner without illusions, the windbreaker and its immediate family of runaways, it fits in aesthetically to a pin strike. It bestows ideals to even unaware souls of sightless torment. One pyrefly whom died inside to another… The world has destroyed my soul. I cannot bare to walk into the wind of the night anymore and I will wear this, for you to accept me in the anti-summit of eternal solace and no surprises. If you accept me. The answer is always yes.

The weather decides against remaining optimistic about morality and opts for a winter's kiss weeks earlier, turning the atmosphere over prayers below freezing. I am only a visitor, like a train with a hundred, yellow windows of contemplation, blurring past the outpost on my way to another outpost. You never truly know the story of your life until you see a life just like yours with your own eyes. I've lived in outposts, wearing windbreakers, and with a less than perfect face admitting things are alright since the day I was concieved. The urban simulcara may simulate itself into submission as I start simulating better worlds inside myself, encased by the walls of a sushi dungeon for less than five dollars. Since once your inside the walls of developing society, you most certainly won't be the first grubbing soul from Styx to lay eyes or put hands on it. While jackals howl at the moon and dine on bones, I will walk in cobblestone alleys of bones and dine on the moon. Its getting darker, and darker… and darker. Soon no one, not even those who live as variables being tested against a source code in neon paradise, will be able to see the real light. The only light which persists in this day and age is from some moment far back as childhood, if ever, which will remain buried until the electrolytes of afterlife help ignite the task. Flourescence loses its charm and the dancers under glass eyes are dancing in a city of the dead. I am meditating in an outpost which is dead as well, even more so than the original city. I digress, as the gust of chill cannot seduce my thoughts while it reaches for unsimulated light where no fool in a suit told me about it, but a fool in a windbreaker did. It is completely dark now and the simulated are blinded by fabrication, while I am blinded in melancholy darkness searching for what once existed. Objectively so, since I have far from enough light for the world.