Hearts Filled With Disgust

The notions that we leave to the devices of action hold us to our own self worth. We deem action to be a king. Yet we promise a trampling to those crowns. There is glory in the adolescent pride of belief. The wet stickiness of not having thought it through fully. When you look back years later you can make it a clearer more realistic perfection. The night in blackness ruined by the corpses of stars. Stars lingering onto faded glories. Billion year failures that cannot even leave the scene when they pass on. The observer on the mountaintop in the observatory can see definitely. But observe from that deep inside a taught notion? Not a chance. Education is blindness. Ignorance is a twenty twenty vision. The flaw in action though is that it callously demonstrates to us how much of slaves we truly are. We can in dishonorable ways be what we deem necessary. Or there is the ability to lend oneself to the unavoidable endpoint. Or the necessity of pretend and playtime all the time top shield ourselves from life. Or the lack inherent in all facets of their disgusting decadence. From seam to breast. Every inch of the fabric from the masterpieces to the must-see-tv to the kitsch to the shit that could never be ironic or iconic unless the observer was on acid or just had that much fear of being revealed inside them. The lack that kills the future and stifles thought and lynched the past and told us we were the pointless end. Fuck that! We are the end of history. A history of what? More pathetic then the stars. Human civilization is only a five thousand year old failure. We could never even be as pointless and worthless as the stars littering the blackness of the night sky.