I wonder how one feels being agreeable candidates of a simulated amnesia… and how much looking away from the uncomfortable truth is enough, and too much? Is there a cathartic stability in self-reflective sensibility where one’s reality is challenged by the selective focus on what matters? How does it feel to have control of one’s own mind by giving up clarity, and responsiveness to the full story? How will it feel if “too late” was a choice that one never realised s/he can make?
I observe a certain curiosity in my reception of information that are not in accordance of what I know, the certainty in those who made choices based on personal choices of priority intrigue more than trigger a dramatic reaction these days, especially when I apply a sustainable dose of apathy that I needed, to be none-reactive to what I thought were unthinkable choices given the facts we can rummage and discover underneath the mainstream media. Sedate myself, to give alternative realities the respect they deserve. Nothing is certain anymore, except our own acute awareness to all that is unfolding.
What I thought were technologically enhanced divisions are becoming more and more like conscious choices we make in not acknowledging the readily microwavable blind states we have long entertained with popcorns in our arms, receptive to all that a constructed world is moulding us to be. I admit, there’s a certain jovial holiday spirit in how freely we can submit ourselves, and our loved ones to suggestions that fizz like a good party waiting beyond the mental horizon that echoes like a praise with promises of rewards. Perhaps that could be all we needed. Maybe there’s no grand complication to why people snooze. .. whilst the battles of spirits go on behind our eyes whilst the theme of our matrix plays lullaby.
To a certain extend, we reach a kind of neutrality, where we don’t want to see what may our consequences bring… if the choices we encouraged one another to take were wrong, especially for those who should have made their own minds up. You catch yourself play soft ball with oppositions, diabolical alternatives, hoping for resolves to those who wondered into the dark sleepwalking, or by sheer naivety. You catch yourself tailoring a slightly more comforting version of truth, that may reconstitute more forgiving aftermaths beyond the mind. You tell yourself that if people can heal themselves from cancer, they can heal themselves from pharmaceutical experiments, no matter how dire the expertise were, on the eventualities. It’s a real exercise for surrendering, and I understand now just easily we will lie to ourselves, so every next new placebo can cancel out the last nocebo planted by initiating thoughts& beliefs, presuming we are supreme programmers of our own reality, walking the highest capacities of our DNA potentials, to meet our maker.
After the hype has calmed, maybe our senses return, perhaps the pain of fear will no longer be so pervasive, the vigilant obliviousness will fade and the world will crack a little, with embarrassment for the reckless men riding paper wealth… maybe the new human genre will be the new power supply for the build up of artificial matrix where all illusions are possible, providing we never look at raw, chaotic materials or reach out to touch our own kinds. Simulated harmony in perfect order. Perfect isolation where everything about being human belongs to the system… maybe we just break the grid easily since we were equalised by overwhelming brilliance that we echo our presence as all directions of our own unfolds. Maybe the little trail of seeds following us will grow into all kinds of wondrous dimensions that no longer need answers.