the prison of routine (s.o.c.)

the prison of routine (s.o.c.)

the prison of routine, some might say the harshest confinement is the one constructed by yourself for yourself, well, this has some truth to it but the main difference in the mortar and brick is choice, when someone other locks the door and walks away with the key you are left at their mercy, for at least with your own device there is hope and light, a fight, a chance, a choice, so you should make steps forward this, however… lurking… fear is out there, out there beyond the walls, defanged, defamed, barely noticeable sliding around the edges of inevitable periphery, never fully vanquished but certainly downgraded from the moment to moment memory residing in these temples, but as most coins there is certainly two sides, a sly-silent partner, an ally, a comfort. for they work in concert you see, to relieve you of the daring of the new, with the quiet contentment of the known sold-old, so you tell yourself with conviction “What’s so bad about this, really?”, pushing down, suppressing or ignoring, that truth, the truth, what you know as the truth, what you have walled up yourself against all (or most) vulnerability, out of sight, out of mind, contentment blinds, that familiar, blanket of the finest kind, a warm snuggly atmosphere wrapped around surround, a cocoon- not of enchantment or rebirth or transformation even, but that to preserve a line of time, trying to stop the march that only goes on, a set, a play where the stage remains the same with some of the props changing, floating in and out of creation, but the base floor remains the same, so to close your eyes there is no serpent there to strike, only clean-dreams, safe dreams, the only rain- not the biting kind, the kind of quench of a summer drench to leech-instant the heat off your skin and in an instant spark steam on the heated grounds, summer scenes with not a rumor of winter, which must, of course, always come, but in this place, this palace of reinforced concrete is the con, your own prison of routine, worse than the singing of the sirens on the open seas, for at least you have heard their tale or read it so, from others lost, upon those sharpened rocks, but when upon – you crash out on to your very own, where stones and sticks to not break, but are lock and key, a willing iron mask for you to keep (in your own keep). so that is the prison, of my routine, and even scribing, scribbling, the realization of this, the seduction of self is deadly-slow bliss.

notes… this is one of those pieces bouncing around my head for days, well… the title was and the rest was like a train that followed on the tracks as I laid them, all in one flow, all of ten minutes maybe, takes longer to post and look pretty than it does to write… but I like adding the videos and such, that’s more for me than anyone else, if other people (you) dig it, thanks, that’s cool, this is more of a gallery though to hang up my art and let people walk through… except the cool thing is this is a better suggestion box than most museums have…