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.: Энциклопедия » E » Ether » Depraved, Repressed, Feelings

It often strikes me when searching a way out
Of this spiritual warfare opposing logics and feelings
A light scent of defunct grandeur
Surrounding memories long gone, accidentally unearthed by sheer innocence
Washed away by a absence of linking time frame
It always bring a tear and a smile
To remember those filtered events, freed of bipolar limitations

An inner sanctum where everything stands still
Lingering endlessly in their preserved environment
Where images, scents, toughs and resentments
Are forever bound, defying the decaying process of time

I mostly live in the past
Obsessed by those immemorial manifestations
Feeding off phantasms of extrapolated splendor, probably biased
Most of the time, neglecting actual events to hasten the process
In which boringness of present unfoldments
Is devoured and restructured as subconscious draws the memory deeper
In it's realm, somewhere between fantasy and active memory

As time slowly fade, the concept of existential projection
Loses its significance at the profit of a superlative past
Where everything can be reshaped and perfected
Another example of distorted reality by primal, chaos layer
To which omnipresent source the brain connects to define what
Is important or superficial information

I think we are all redefining our own existence
Numbing our own perceptions, respecting the predefined limits of our psyche
Memory is then refined by our own futile need of secure, linear evolution

Irritating moments gets deleted; anticipation gets mixed up with actual events
Rendering those souvenirs, an illusive maelstrom incubating in our diseased conscience

That is what we call reality
That makes me wonder what percentage of our own personality is false
That is, if we accept an absolute truth, inherent to life and mankind
And I don't, I think of humanity as a hopeless continuation
Of births and deaths holding nothing more than futile means of distraction
To counterbalance the weight of cold empty darkness
That rule supreme outside our germ size piece of matter, revolving around an insignificant star, gravitating within a microscopic star system on the outer edges of one of the smallest galaxies.

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