My head just starts off. I just follow. Writting is an exercise of finger skills. But it’s not just that. It’s also the spirit of becoming something else. The act of creating a new world. The essence of being a creator.
An artist can perform. But a true artist delivers the whole prospect of yourself. I’m about to do just that. A coming to age story. I’m not inventing formats. I’m just delivering. I’m a poet, but not just that. I don’t like to rhyme. Fuck it. I refuse to rhyme. It’s not a must. You are not anybodies slave. Stay off.
You may belong to another dimension. I’ve got it all figured out. It’s a matter of scale. And also dumb asses. Dickheads. A macho ride and the sense of nuclear armaggeddon.
Where did we learn those words?
What are you talking about?
You lost me.
I don’t get you.
I don’t follow.
I don’t see it.
Neyers will be neyers.
Believers will believe.
I’ve lost too many battles for this same ideal. What I am about to tell you is about my self. Indeed. But also about you. And how you and I have a thing to do. Just know. Just now.
You are now given a responsibility: to choose.
I give you options. Not all mine. In fact, as many as possible. But you know what? If I give you too many you are going to go nuts. I’m going to have to give you digestible options. You’ve become too busy. Too important. Too dependant. Too slave. Too blind. Too like yours. Too tight. Too cocky. Too scary.
The thing is shit is fucked up. We are dealing the going to war cards again. And every country gets into world war motion. What has happened here is because we were playing another game. A more integrated scenario. A wholesome store with all you need at your hand, already uploaded in your virtual SUV, you beauty peagent finalist.
I could have won a popularity show as a kid. Or a Corre GC Corre. But we didn’t get to compete. It wasn’t made for us. We say a smart 5th girl from the upper class nail it. And she got us higher than ourselves. She competed for our kind: heroes of liberty.
That’s what my fucking elementary and middle school was called. I was fucking ready for that shit. I’m already a hero at 9 years old. Life is that good to me. I’m happy. As a happy as a 9 year old girl/boy/other.
My little one is nine years old. Only for this last 9 days. The time of crossing the frontier. From going from one to two. Digits I mean. It’s not a minor thing, you know. Every kid who’s around there would know. A young knowledge collective experience.
Every level of the 9 dimentional Golman’s pyramyds:
0-9 – The first stage. Give me love and game. Let me figure life from this time we take to the little people into the world. Not like young Mufasa. Animals have it hard. They most be ready for their predator. We get nine years to get our shit together, read good, write continuosly, express feelings of caring and critical thinking, act in a play, sing out loud screaming at the peak of that song that gets you all the way up there, cause you feel the collective cause, in a song that’s here to take this crowd into a clash………
Da da da da da da da da da
You know the indian guru that Einstein went to visit. He told Albert:
I’m going to fill in the blanks. But you may do that too. That thing someone did. To fill in the joke. To end your sentences. To know you more than well. To connect like this. Are reading out loud at me to make me horny? Let’s go. Common. Hmhuh. You are really something. But that thing between us. Just know. Like that. Look at you: comming at me. Slowly sloth movements so close, so nice, so tender, that I’ve gotten hooked to your eyes, and your lips, those lips, the things you say, like what, like those remarks that me smile, like that way of lovingly turn into a dream boy to nuclearly fuse with, like intense desire from Einstein to engage as powerful minds attracted to gentle feeling of erotic arousment that got no one confused nor at dislike, and on it went, as curvy stories look for a final twist to end together at mutual comming out of our current dimention.
Nine social dimensions: