Silence is a rare commodity these days.
Ears ring in the nothing.
Rhythms with no origin fill heads.
The echoless freedom is almost blinding.
Madness comes quickly to the lonesome.
Ideas bloom as the madness seeps.
Or is it madness, this odd new pattern of thought?
Patterns born of rhythms born of nothing.
The influence of chaos lessens as it's studied.
What are we doing, what is this nonsense?
Clothes, hair, stereotypes. Made-up faces.
Lies, really.
Lies photoshopping pretty pictures we'd rather believe:
-Love requires a painted face.
-Our little footprints we leave mean nothing.
-Crowds are objects, cattle, really.
-That brand name on your tag spells out your soul.
-Change is made of cattle prods and needles, is preached by devils.
-We are canvases to be painted by the world.
-We are alone.
A barrage of lies typed out by fearful masses.
In the disconnected silence, they're finally challenged.
Unplugged, staring into nothing,
Alone with the mind,
In company of the stars.
Being stumbles through lines of pure thought,
A light unfettered and unfiltered by chaos
As knowledge unfolds, dawning.
-We are not here to be painted.
-Every print carves safer paths for new feet.
-Each mind in the masses is singular, changing, infinitely precious.
-No soul can be summed up by a generic set of letters.
-Change is not always synonymous with growth, but without it we grow stagnant.
-We are here to paint the canvas of this world.
-We are not alone.
The mind's universe inverses,
Silence carries comfort to the exposed soul.
Thought to be unplugged, it finds itself finally connected,
Finally with purpose.
A return to chaotic, photoshopped lies is not only inevitable,
It is necessary, a responsibility.
Surrounded by the noise, but not drowning in it,
Painting beauty over the anger, order over the chaos.
Because we are not alone.
Silence is a rare commodity these days.
