As a young brave teenager, the juicy imagination of what it would be like to live life as David Beckham. As a young naive teenager, the juicy imagination of what it would be like to live life as Uncle Sam.
Their fame, their influence, their wealth.
Mmm, if I owned a gucci belt.
I’d be captain of the whole village.
Ego would fly over the highest ridge.
These days I still have juicy images of what it would be like to live a different life. Someone else’s life.
Only one factor has changed.
The main character has changed.
No fancy name.
No golden dollar game.
Images of what it would be like to be blind.
Images of what it would be like to not send distorted images to a confused mind.
Maybe I’m without the necessary amount of sleep.
Maybe hungry guts are begging for a big bowl of quinoa seed.
I just can’t shake those thoughts.
We exist as a mannequin of many coats.
We want to be this, we want to have that.
Only false impulses clogging up such a confused head.
And that organ embedded in the chest.
Which should be in the south, but our stupidity has moved it to the west.
Two groups defined by experts.
It hurts.
First poor individuals.
Second rich individuals.
Judged by eye – probably correct.
Judged by the heart – deeply incorrect.
We, just the poor guys.
We, just the poor gals.
The obsession to build dead hills.
And a soul still in need of shedding tears.
Necessity to own the latest mechanism.
And still an identity tortured with autism.
The golden formula – more and more and more.
When will the avalanche of conscience start – why the hell am I acting like some foreign whore?
Wouldn’t our existence be much more colourful?
If we just deactivated that shallow tool?
Feeding us with dead callories.
Paralyzing our core with industrial breeze.
Thousands of species of flowers in the valley.
Thousands of beautiful corners outside Cali.
Thousands of different species of friendly snakes.
Thousands of different paradises hidden under undiscovered lakes.
Thousands of different forms of unexpressed gestures.
Thousands of different emotions waiting for spiritual investors.
Thousands of different kinds of pleasant triggers – of harmonious mood.
Thousands of different kinds of flavours rooted in local food.
There is so much.
Miracles that can be tasted through touch.
Any natural song.
Could be felt through the intimacy of tongue.
If we were not so glossy oriented.
If we didn’t have the need to incessantly edit.
Respect to those gals.
Respect to those guys.
Who do not determine who is and who is not nice.
Because the judgment came from easily manipulated eyes.
If purity in his, her voice.
Would dictate intentions more than her, his toys.
The world would be a much more connected place.
Without amateur runners in costumes trying to win an invincible race.
Maybe if we felt, listened to all those unappreciated things.
Like, for example, the sadness of our beloved siblings.
There would be by love nourished farms.
And no bullet fueled lethal firearms.
So these words imply a change of my own priority.
A change of my own priority puts me in a doomed minority.
Doomed with the same intensity as socialism.
By those who pray for an eternal stream of materialism.
Even it’s just an ordinary muscle.
To find your way to it, more complicated than a miniature puzzle.
The verdict to put on the invisible tape.
Thanks to her, deeper perception as a wild ape.
As they say: the coffin has limited space.
But this is not our case.
The inner vault has no borders.
No capacity-created folders.