Tomorrow We Dance To Freedom

Lit Path of Blackened Nothing

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This is the lit path that perturbs your correct thought. Simpletons race back and forth with up stretched arms - hands waving furiously. You know you must conform to the destruction of your spirit, the squashing of your sexual urges, for yours is a blighted life plugged into the machine - the capitalist grinder.

Don't reach out for happiness for you will not find a smattering of it.

Don't assume you've even experienced even a frigid semblance of life; it was only an illusion.

Really, you must refrain from imagining any burst of brilliant passion in this barren desert. Just hold tight to your treasured vacillation, your insecurity, and your doubts, because contrivances always prompt these feelings.

If your capitalist world was so brilliant instead of dull gray smudged by dirty grabbing hands why is it only in buildings built for worship you're told you'll find release from drudgery and deliverance to beauty?

The only guarantee you'll be afforded if you're a laborer is more labor, more work, more of the same blighted life you've been afforded by the steadily clicking years.

Why do you think you've been warned about fully expressing yourself, about letting your passions ride the blowing wind coming out of a cobalt blue horizon? Think long and hard, why not expand your horizons beyond the simple gaze of the mindless robot, why not experience humanity to its fullest, wildest heights?

Be cautious if you do decide to once again express your humanity, because creative people, happy passionate souls, are dangerous to the established order; the rulers of the capitalist abomination are terrified by these anomalies.

Passion that is unrestrained, an inherent characteristic of creative minds stems from the fires of freedom. Freedom, not the dingy kind that is currently splattered about, but the pure inescapable, pleasurable, clear blue crystal mountain view kind; the unobstructed kaleidoscope of colors bursting from all directions in an eruption of passion or realization of beauty.

This explosion of passion unchecked by convention, religion, insecurity, or contrived societal systems of expropriation makes all powerbrokers tremble. They fear those who've allowed this type of freedom to expand, burst, and encompass their wretched existence - those who've never allowed themselves to be twisted into automatons.

For the controllers, dictators, and stealers of pleasure realize that these ingots of untarnished spirit attract others like a magnet does simple iron; the pull could dislodge all their slaves from their mindless servitude.

That would be very bad indeed if the leaders of greed couldn't convince the mindless droids that slaving endless hours so a few could become wealthy beyond comprehension wasn't a hideous waste of a life.

Life, you must be kidding, this constant drudgery isn't life, it's a drooling existence, a blighted contrivance designed to squeeze us like a plump lemon only to crush the flapping yellow peel under self-serving well-polished black boots.