Table 4 / Theory of Mind / Forest Hills Drive
What is to realize? Coasting along an endless stream of consciousness will make you realize a life transcendent of your current reality. It's as sexy and alluring as any tease, but floating is next to effortless. It's not that impressive, and at the end of the day you might as well have only sunken into abysmal delusions than to entertain glimpses of a life realized. That's an unfulfilled backstroke.
Entertained glimpses of a life. Unprotected delusions waiting to be welcomed with coats taken & pretenses picked like hors d'oeuvres on a platter. Conscious decisions fall flat without the unconscious struggles hardwired into our unflattering rock bottom's. Hence why, is to why. I might be embodying a society of reaction minus action. Which is as fucking ridiculous as immovable objects & unstoppable forces. This and that. That and this. And that's this. Cut to a personal montage.
This is when I knew...
Fantasizing About a Mic
...that I had to get the fuck out of this.
Armed and dangerous. Aim to be Notorious. You would too, if you knew, all that wasted time in you. Paying homage to a dream, or two. Homages left slumped along sidewalks devoid of the necessary cracks sprouting consciousness between two cities of different creeds. Scratch that; the cracks in the foundation are there. It'd be a disservice to myself to allow thoughts of peaceful impossibilities. The rebellious life necessary to push through the sediment just isn't there.
Been kicking these thoughts over for more than a few days now. My line of thinking is parallel with the low key bad that probably doesn't get talked about enough. The tables that are good up until the end of a shift. They symbolize a diluted feeling of dread. Categorized helplessness polarized by feelings of anxiousness, rage and due diligence suspended in an atom simply labeled as Fm. Fermium. Synthetic, unstable and dense. Not talking radio. Tables of many variety. Left over matter from big, fucking, explosions. Short lived half-life with little known purpose. Situated between Einsteinium & Mendelevium. That's right. My periodic table spirit molecule is somewhere in-between Einstein and the current age street-name that Mandela would have. I choose to dispend all sense on this one. People would definitely call Nelson Mandela "Mendelevium." Yo - don't tread on my imagined sandwiched pedigree. Try not to be mad. I didn't come up with these obviously nominal appropriations. In name only? Rude...how dare Einstein and Mandela bump elbows with my shine. Have to admit though...it's nice to share a block with a few know it all's.
But you ain't know shit
can I get a
But you ain't done shit
Industry and I engaging in a staring match at the table. One of us sees the realization of potential while the other sees untapped. A tale of two cities. Personal rebellion ignited from the smallest of consciousness cracklings. They think I don't appreciate myself. I disagree. Rich from unspoken cornerstones. Context clues be damned. The Devil is in the details and God resides in the overlooked acknowledgements. A depressed oxymoron tailored & fitted for us. Understandable from a perspective that only cares to engage and consume. Because to rebel is to create. And for every instance of choking back while others eat, you die a little. Sovereignty into suffering. It's understood that actions speak louder so then what is to be expected when a person's actions amount to intolerance. Their breaking barrier is closer than you'd like to think. I think I'm close enough, spurned time of mine. Wasted seconds. My ever diligent antagonist. You're what distracts me from my favorite child.
Pick your antagonist carefully.
Not everything that doesn't kill you, will make you stronger. And if this is written as a story then let me imagine it like a track. Draw the Ether, adjust the tempo, flip a stanza and show some resilience for all the care you represent in those side conversations. Weak-side interviews. Politicin' for campaigns less believable than the most dishonest representin' us. Yuck. Run it, run it, run it and switch. Pick your antagonist carefully. Don't end up chasing your own fictitious tale.
So. Who's my antagonist in this story? Who broke my patience? Table 4. Superfluous jabs to the doo, dah, dippity of the Industry. The tables that are good up until the end of a shift. If retrospect remain reliable, then rebellion grew three sizes richer & I hope to runaway with that realization. I don't even feel like talking about anything Industry related. I'm bored by it. I've bitched to my bitchiness content. Let's remix a pivotal chapter to something that most of you won't just interpret a flood for a drop. Let's take a trip through an Ego. A non-fiction of the "Theory of Mind." Mirrors are easy. To see a reflection that isn't your own is as enlightening as it is defeating. That is the realization of potential. I don't believe to have understood it that way until now. Even though I've wondered about the minds of other's since a child, if I can piece together a reason for you believing in me...then I can understand the depth of my actions. And vice versa. In the worst of ways. Without this trigger, we are only deafening echo's of ourselves. That's the theory. It is through the critique of eyes not our own that we can decide whether, or not to go fuck ourselves. Going and fucking ourselves being the most humble of deprecating actions. That might be the more important tale between two cities. A tale of two people. Coming to consciousness together, piece by piece. Not pitted against one another by poor and rich ideals...but instead in a humble search for an honest disagreement.
And through hating you, Table 4, I learned to understand you. You're just a collection of things, much like myself. I'd still like you to fuck off every time you sit at a table - just not with as much vigor as before. I think you gave me a solid Eight chambers of literature. Which is more important of a pastime to me than any bullshit job I may be at. Word gazing up some mazes. This one being the necessary prequel to throwing up Deuces to My Violence. Just thinking out loud here. Just looking to stage dive into a backstroke. No more floating...
...only muddied states & added wristbands that only constrict to remind.
...pressure pointed to a switch of the wrist.
Oxymoron's of verbally written ques aside...
Theory of Mind
check the wrist
i need you to try.
Theory of mind is the ability to attribute mental states - beliefs, intents, desires, emotions, knowledge, etc.—to oneself, and to others, and to understand that others have beliefs, desires, intentions, and perspectives that are different from one's own.
Just how fucking hilarious is that. The God-proclaimed gifted joke to a species. The innate ability to Be. An argument within itself; to itself.
I remember spending a lot of time as a child contemplating what it was like for others to be sentient. To hold the same insecurities that you possess. Or better; that you don’t. I think it’s a lot like a muscle. If you don’t contemplate it, it’ll only get weak. You lose track of remembering it’s value. Then, you lose track of your own value.
But let's bring it back. Jermaine left the 'ville only to just lift his veil. I've learned to disregard flowers smelling better on the other side. I get that grasses are only as green as you perceive them. Beauty in the struggle. Intolerance has to begin somewhere. Probably began with my own self. Self-tagonist. Love Yourz is the lesson. Can I get a glimpse - or, do one better. Get an open letter to yourself. Written as a painting and detailed in red brushstrokes. A concentrated concealing of the contrived tossed out into the open. Loud and present, for everyone to see.
hands in the air
nice wristband - you went the wrong way