What God is worshiped in a place as weary as this world? If the only daily certainty is defeat in bed when we seek to endure an extra hour of sleep, as the only audacity that we can afford in a world of manuals, rules and logic. That only god can only be Morpheus, Sandman, whatever you want to call it. We just wait for him to give us a puff of magic dust. We enter during that defeat to the dream, which is the mirror world of our fantasies that guides us through a yellow path to where the impulse for the destruction of our mirror reflection of dreams rests. And when that mirror is broken, there is only a black hole from which jump rats that lead us to the bluest despair that we can experience, and this in turn is what drives us into the arms of delirium, that at the same time brings us back to the sweet arms of the sleep. Being alone and helpless in a world too big in which we can not dream, and where mysticism is condemned, we have as our path to the same destination in a borgian labyrinthine garden that bifurcates into infinite possibilities. Death awaits us in the end in any of its possibilities without caring how we have lived ours lifes.
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Our eyes contemplating the enormity of this disaster that has devoured us, are two tiny specks of dust. On the other hand, dreams will be the only truth that will last when the real events are nothing but dust of forgotten fairies with the inclement and ruthless passing like the scythe of Cronos himself?
Out there in the city, it only rains badly; the rain mixes with the tears of those who still cry honestly, and not because their consciences have been programmed by a collectivism of viscerally sensitive subjects, who proclaim through the electronic media ideologies that are only achievable through these same media, which in turn function as pamphlets that actually sell too well. Socialism reaches its zenith thanks to the sweet honey of capitalism, and its endless windows to sell sentimental revolutions to young and adult fools that, as a consequence the ominous maelstrom like a hurricane in the heart of Saturn, are absorbed without ever asking: "What is my place in the supposed feelings of this collective assumption?". From then on, they are asleep and converted into electric sheep, which we can look at and count on for sleep.
However, we all write through electronic means, you are reading this in one of them. I have written here and there for some time; in one more than in another, and it seems that the brief contributes to the cult of radical forcefulness. It is not easy to qualify for any of these spaces. twitter is more sententious than Facebook and Instagram; epigrammatic too. A compelling advantage, but still a limitation.
Electric sheep, what are they? They are those subjects who mainly dream that they are trapped inside their own world of fantasies, while outside, in the outer world, they are objects dreamed by all those who see them trapped in the abstraction of their delusions, as well as by the nebula that represents the society in the mouth of the bureaucratic Leviathan called "the State"; but not necessarily must be awake to count electric sheep, I mean, an electric sheep can see others in this same state without knowing sheep, but android, which is the same as a replicant of other emotions trapped within the psychoanalytic bubble of a nephew of Sigmun Freud; it is also an automaton that dreams, dreamed within other dreams that are real, and therefore, all their equals are avatars within their dream.
Posted from my blog with SteemPress : http://seifiro.timeets.xyz/2018/08/20/139/
To the question in your title, my Magic 8-Ball says:
Hi! I'm a bot, and this answer was posted automatically. Check this post out for more information.
A bot answer the question. This is ironic in so many levels.
This post was shared in the Curation Collective Discord community for curators, and upvoted and resteemed by the @c-squared community account after manual review.
Thank you!