Thoughts from under the bridge

Vertical carrions, dancing carrions, all crammed into one place. I am not sure what is exactly happening at Southbank – it’s so full of people. The breeze feels tender, but strange, I am unable to distinguish the cold from the hot in this air, as several areas of my perception are affected. I see dirt being washed ashore, an opaque face or ambiguity that reflects the city’s blind eye; probably the eye through which we all gaze during day time…

 

A carousel is a repetition of movement as though there was no exit for the mind; therefore your footsteps follow those of others’. Out of the roundabout – right now.  There are too many kids.

 

Here are so many words and pictures of manipulation, the only aim to coax you into adopting an attitude that suits only them. But the colours and fonts are nice.

 

And under the bridge I find comfort. The noise of the train drains off the sound of people’s cheering and hand clapping in this vast space.  Like an emulation of thunder. A low sky so rusty, but close enough to worship with confidence.

 

There is the deep water that keeps looking up. It’s keeping the secrets below. And if the rusty sky falls, its overwhelming weight will push you down and crush you along with your secrets. It was a fake sky after all.

 

What’s real is behind the rusty sky. But what on earth is behind that thing that you worship? What’s behind that face you wonder? Doesn’t it kill you every time you realize that you won’t ever know?

 

Vertical carrions, dancing carrions, we’re a walking paradox, living by choice, smiling through the void as we create something to fill it and the fill is all that counts. But the void is always hungry, as it digests fast. In a case of danger you should always keep a creative invention in your pocket, but nothing will ever be good enough.

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