Follies & Prophecies 11:00 pm What to Bring?

Here I am, in my life that leads, and my mind that follows; beckoning for revival. From this sorry state we have foregone, to allow such usurpers within our dominion. Where I am so very broken of the hearts that beat no more, and those that still do. For what they have seen and experienced is unimaginable, and real.

Every bullet, a scar of my identity, every bomb a crater in my countries heritage and what a bruise it has been to bare. I must awake to what used to be my pride, my life, my world. In the spoils of western profiteers’, the lives of my ancestry laid bare it's heart to modern democracy, where those that sell peace, assert their fruits by the exposition of war.

Imagine it, like a theatre production, where without conflict, there is boredom. This boredom is fuelled by the ideation of capital, that is prescribed in hearty steins of passion for freedom, passion for patriotism and culpable responsibility in the face of the consequences that are endured of ferocious greed of the ‘whiteman’.

The power they own was never theirs, and they progressed quicker only because of their enslavement of natural resource, and by this I attempt to mean bodies, of races deemed less capable of their 'modern life'.

They brought with them disease, horror and consequences of hundreds of years of individually and systematically inclusive affections.

Be it by future heritage or current damages, we see only the reflection of the truth, that the ‘whiteman’, the white western man, is the aspiration of all kind. Where we are adorned by his great deeds and treats for the world, so to impoverish, and take through incredulous and unscrupulous charms. Understand me so, that by charms, the ‘whiteman’ smiled and smirked his gloat, holding with him the outrageous claim to ownership, for trophies and treasures that were no more theirs than they were to belong to the earth. And they said 'liberation, will always remain superior to the lives of poor fortune whom live without democracy.' and what sort of democracy they impose, would not fit the description of either freedom nor peace.

What we owned, admittedly was by no definition perfect, but it was ours to ruin. Even now it seems so strange how quickly tension was built upon and bound to us, like flees to a mutt and chains to a charm, we became ensnared by the eyes of the world, and before that to the eyes of the rebellion that was imploding because of the irredeemable disorient rule. By the time I was a young woman, I was already a woman, we had to be; so, to avoid condemnation of naivety.

The shameful grouts that gave spirit to inspired rebellion which spore the high rises to the ground, that spoke to those with lips whom had accompanying paperwork's that held the power and the key to unlock the destruction of slave riches.

The wide eyed dispel, I had within my eyes, that grew marks among my soft young skin, that gave weather to my face, and years to my perspective. I was always incredibly gifted, in exploring my life with the curiosity of a high functioning machine and so I devoted myself entirely to the cause of my freedom, the dream of my education to encompass reality, and never did I realize that it could be the other way around.

My mind conjures bright images of sustainable development, our own vision of democracy, where there are no powers beyond the strength of the people's open minds and the peoples’ strength of heart. When there is without a doubt, never the need to explore violence to usurp voted power.

There are many problems I know to suffocate the idea of freedom, where the reflection of our own perception strip the attentive details of environment, and draw us into the inept surface image, of ourselves and we find concern and vanity packed into the persona of ego, and the status of living. Where we find the limit of freedom conditioned and grown from within, to indicate the ideation of projective emission. Where our enemies are coated in the faults of ourselves, and there is a point where we fail even further so to imagine the opposite side of those looking behind the mirror.

Where their thoughts and faults are cast, like seeds to hungry morning hens, and O' how there is subversive control in the portrayal of image, exonerated by the image deemed appraisable by the faults of their thoughts limit.

The degenerative level of composition that the ‘whiteman’ has available to wear, as his face of democracy, and his lens of image, where he stares into himself and sees glory and pride in the pantheon, the eyes of a cultural assimilation upon the worldly scale, at which was executed before only by the white European demons of the second millennia.

Where the energy of man became so to become the ‘whiteman’, even if that is not ones’ visual conception of the ‘whiteman’. So much so in fact, that under the blanket which swept across the barbaric wastelands of a flags youth, there showed the defunct crooks, with problems that arrive freely from the other men, and not the image of the ‘whiteman’. White wash, clothing so to bleach, like the cleanse of the colours, the cleanse of unique ethnicity, and the unsavoury denial to origin and heritage.

Thieves and usurpers of the native races hard efforts in life and in death, all the same. Cultural integrity and dignity were like seeds among the coup, spread and devoured almost instantaneously, with Their bloodstained and soaked to the bone fingers which drip and drabble across the globe to which they owe so many lives and retributions, that it hardly steeps to compare to an immortal demon, because of its systematics, the humanity of their deeds is to be the rawest of meats, so unmet with the vengeance or wrath it should have ascertained. To be judged of the actions truth, and not perceived by the objectifications of reality; shrouded in proud ‘falsenarrative’.

So, they say that God loved the world so much that he gave His only begotten Son that whosoever believes in Him shall not perish but have everlasting life. Well then it was in this way that I believed the human spirit was of greater value, on the open condition of unaltered and ‘foreverbelief’. The nature of spirit that must live on and take from this the meaning of a life without belief, where you are banished to the continuation of a ‘onelife’.

I wonder who so has more to lose, the believer or the non-believer, in either sense, we all know that to be under the uncompromising condition of ‘onelife’, where even in the ‘lifeafter’, this can surely be ‘zerolife’ at all. Grown in synthetises, of the mutter noise, conjured in the space between human thoughts and ‘lifereality’.

Calling from those characteristic and erroneous mumbles of speech, that speak of the limbos of eternity, as pictured by those with strong beliefs in salvation and or redemption. Holy, molies and undying divinity, where white is whiter than can exist, or clouds that might hold the might weight of man and women alike. Nevertheless, I must reason as to why there are no return calls.

Of course, as is my humble opinion that the ‘Divine Human Spirit is the bounty of the sun shining off a mirror’ and so we meagre mortal guests, must bask and shimmer in the lines of reality that give us depth, as to be in the ‘trueobject’ of as far we know it to be, ‘earthone’, where it is to ‘lifelive’ a natural physicality, of breathing capacities; and equal traditions.

My mind is cast where beauty is bound of eternal cosmic eyes gazing upon the blessed cyclone of birth, and death. It is now that the two primal entities, who reveal themselves in vision as to be twins, are the better and the bad, in thought of word and action. It is between these that one wise take control, and so it is for this reason that the ‘whiteman’ think he must take control, of the uncontrolled, free as it were.

The Mirror of Reflection. O’ how it burdens my name and life, the existence I hold with my coarse fingertips, across the edges of reality that are sometimes too hard to persevere; but we must.

For I have as little as an hour before I must leave my humble home, and make the unthinkable journey to safety, so to flee from the terror that surrounds my eyes on all sides. And I question myself to think what to bring, and my mind blanks, and can see only government papers, bank accounts and other such useless offerings for my own freedom.

I drift sequentially, across the lanes of my memory into a garden with our neighbours’ son Naim, a childhood friend, that lingered well into my youthful teenage years, when tensions of politics were starting to boil, and I saw the lust of his eyes turn from adventure to ownership of our own lands.

This exaction was unified by rebel occupying forces which sold dreams to our youth of a future of freedom away from neighbouring bloodshed and torment, from both state and public forces, intertwined with the follies of prophecy. I saw them twist his mind, with idealizations of reality, that mirrored true life, sold by the mouths of libellous embellishment. The aroma of prosperity, which acts only as the man hole cover of misfortune.

There we were chasing each other by trees and civils, dancing in the warmth of democratic impurity, where I protruded the fun of our afternoon to ask Naim his badge. “Which is it that you follow Naim? My friend. What path is it that is best taken, and which should be best for us, for our familiars? For you I believe have thoughts and wonders that are entirely different to mine, and so I believe I should like to know the voice of your mask, and where the mask of your intention ends so to bridge the limits of freedom and tomorrow? Where are you Naim, and where is it that you see us to belong? For my heart believes that in ‘truedemocracy’ we should fight for the truth of belief, in the names of those whom have fought to secure it from previous powers, and usurpers themselves, most likely. But I find myself torn between what I understand to be faith of power and faith of ideology. For I too believe that every condition of country is an ideology of ideals that sparks the freedom of security, to sell as a nationalism, to embrace in language and culture, of heritage and art and commerce of market and management of time and expertise of skill but holds too the power to inflict imprisonment within the cage of society, and ‘truelife’ that ensnares the common folk with dangerous attitudes and inequalities of the mind. Naim, please ease my mind and share your youthful wisdom of feeling with me.” For I will make him think, and he will make me feel.

Naim took my hand, and we stared into the bustling streets, that hosted civilians, rebels and armed authority, whom were oblivious to the conceits of insecurity “O, Amara. I wish I could give you the opinion that opens your eyes wide to all aspects of the scenario, however I am failing evidence so to know which the right power, and which power can be trusted to help our people thrive and not determine them ‘gravefodder’. We are struggling to hold onto any real power at this rate, and soon I shall predict that we will be under the control of another rule, because the force of the rebellion is gaining serious traction among our youth especially, and I see it that they are moulding them, to fight and become usurpers of our voted position wielders. We are going through immense and unstable turmoil, and there is little we, the people, have or can do to rectify or push the pieces of our chess board into appropriate play. All we can do is wait. Nevertheless, my dearest Amara, no matter the conditions. I will be here for you to drain your mindful worries, for they are very real, and I should not like to undervalue them before the eyes of God and his remarkable unforgiveness; lest there be any judgment worse.”

I squeeze Naim’s hand tighter, and feel the increasing pressure of our lives, wash over the streets, before there are shots released overhead, and the crowd begin to scream and scramble to a sort of opportune and unclear safety, in the chaos of the moment, I never once release Naim’s hand.

We escape the gardens, and the roads, and we do not stop running till we are met with a side of town that is unaware of the previous alarm, and so the people are still within routine and their parameters of ‘lifeattention’.

I see in the motion of fast movement that as we pass the drabs of clothing that have styles that are so unique and patterned and catching my dotted vision. The immersive rush of survival drags my heart and mind across the plethora, over the ocean I am strum, to the candidacy of my brief taste of ‘truetrauma’.

Below the arch of local festivities Niam finally gives over running, and we are ‘lifesafe’, for the meanwhile.

I feel the firm grasp of serious hands grab me by the arms and with heavy and long-lasting breathes between word clusters Naim stares into the eternal depth of my retinas.

“You may never forgive my future actions, as I have been decided upon. As though it was a decision not to make, or any less or more, a decision to be proposed by. I am to become and join the rebelling forces. Our government has failed Amara and allowed our people to grow scared and frightened and threatened of insidious traitor and ‘landoccupier’ alike. There is one option I have, to take part in the performance of these men whom no longer value ‘otherlife’ because of the cause they are cast in stance of. The fight for their belief and the defeat of another’s. For if I wait in the wings of buildings and behind the long lines of democracy where ears do not wait to listen, but haste to ignore the words of the people, of said representation. The only way I will be able to live a life worth living, in these conditions, is to lay my life on the line for my people, whom I care for so dearly. I must do my ‘worthybit’ and give myself to the cause, to fight for a more secure land, to ensure that the children my future wife will bear will have the luxury of a life without fear, the underlying mirror of freedom. I must go for now Amara, there are many things that must be done. Namely, I must renounce myself before the eyes of God, and see to it that I know his wisdoms too. When, and then only when my belief aligns to the causation of ‘truegod’, and his value set of worthiness, I shall know where I must lay my hands, and fight for our freedom. People should not be afraid of their government; Governments should be afraid of their people.”

I quiver, in the warmth of air that ruffles me from behind, and I cannot take my eyes away from his demeanour, and how out of shape was Naim’s character to subdue me with a speech of such impromptu decision making. “Naim. Would you serve these usurpers to our demise? What if their dominion wishes to attack its peoples on top of its government? What then? Are we to simply adjust to these newcomers, in way of defence for protection? How can we trust these devils and demons that loiter our streets, with permissions to strike, with vengeance and malice aforethought?” I return the favour, and clasp his arms in rebuttal, for I am never weak. “We are stronger together, in the arms of our ‘lifeloves’. We can overturn the rebels, with faith in democracy, and justice. We, the people, will see to it that this behaviour is driven out of our streets with a ‘fistforce’ made of Russian Iron. We can restore the hearts of our people, without the middleman. We both know that our government is failing, politically. But tell me precisely in which case this is to be a crime? There have been many failings of government and it is not the instability of pressure that assures their downfall, but the threat it poses to existing powers, and the ideologies of strength that must be exacted in order to retain the image of control, so to reflect death as the token of disobedience to the taller man. You must come to your senses and realize that our mouths are for ‘lovespeak’ and not ‘hatespeak’. I beg of you Naim, come back to me, to us, your family.”

I saw nothing more than the hatred of ‘lifefear’ resting abrasively upon his sweated expression, “Democracy is dead Amara, look around you, soon if nothing is changed we are to be embroiled by the chains of destiny, which will impose disaster and plague anew. We shall see our end times, of this I will promise you, albeit with the heart of a dying unicorn, I gift you this prophecy. I promise, the rebellion will bring us the freedom we deserve, from the clasp of corruption and irreparable greed of the political man.” And so, what he really means is to explicitly detail the properties of the ‘whiteman’ as an astute democrat, and our people as a burden. There a ‘humandevil’ resides, in the reflection of the images image.