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Thread: Adaptations of The Soul - (Streaked Thought in Prose)

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    Otaku Artistic Anarchy is off to a good start Artistic Anarchy's Avatar
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    Adaptations of The Soul - (Streaked Thought in Prose)

    Throughout many years of social involvement a person is molded in experiences varying in emotions that spread greatly, severely, and even dangerously. How long would it take you to lose trust or faith in another or how long would it take you to accept a brewing love within you towards another?

    An individual can choose to isolate apart from all communities in which that person has willingly delved into, but a person can also seep so far into social trenches that they're left in this descent with a stigmatic feel of which they cannot shake from them. Perhaps connected painfully to childhood ties that have spoiled and fouled throughout months even years of ominously syncopated tones spelling melancholy or even fond in a pathetic hatred that can grow and encase you as you are currently turning red where you stand wishing for any weapon to accompany your palm as it then wouldn't convulse alone anymore.

    So all experiences can ensconce you in lessons and what you learn is far and foreign compared to what others have intimately gained throughout their own intelligent and physical treks across corridors of schools, cracked and frost bitten streets and forests.

    The soul is wrought with a pain that is a forever laid stain on its top spiritual layer of which is only inflamed by the experiences we live through in a society being seared by the spontaneous and massive amounts of all feelings ululating around us. I've been barraged with betrayal, I've been coated with a blind rage, I tasted the buds of low-grade weed, I learned to stray away frum these greens and have been herded towards the ones I should eat and I should become stronger. I think I've become stronger, I as well as my fading imagination are becoming beige though. The shaking and dead palms of an oasis in Casablanca, Morocco told me to stop creating and to forgive the person that is I, that is depleted. I can only crawl these days, until I learn to forgive the path that's stale and the one I've been leading myself, my pencil, my camera, my pen selfishly downward until I can no longer realize anything false heavenward.
    Last edited by Artistic Anarchy; Jun 24, 2012 at 12:33 PM.

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    Re: Adaptations of The Soul - (Streaked Thought in Prose)

    Woa, that story was poetry man. You were right to put it here. Anyway, I know what its like to be hurt and betrayed, but no matter what, i always muster up the courage to face another day, in hopes of finding something beautiful. I write a lot, when im sad, when im burning with anger, even when im just relaxing and enjoying myself, i always turn back to the old friend that kept me going for so long. Now that you mentioned weed, i smoke it quite frequently, because recently, writing just isnt enough to fill this empty void, but no matter. No where else to go but forward.

    Death is as generation is, a composition of like elements, and a decompostion into the same.

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