Beyond The Matrix: Neverland

Beyond The Matrix: Neverland

* An escalation by Beau Cyphre *


I'm deeply impressed by the wisdom and the poetic depth of your words, and to read them felt like a glorious walk in a dream. Our world feels strange sometimes, and strangers are we - we don't know too much about ourselves, do we?
What we seem to know are nothing but fairytales for grown-ups lost in he woods, and to wake up to the real world is everything we can try to do. The real world shouldn't be anything like the Wachowski-vision of the Matrix (we should pray for that!), and sometimes I feel that this Neverland is very close to our hearts, not so far away...
Maybe... maybe we can breathe it sometimes. That feeling is contagious.



Mind may matter, but intuition is everything:


"Can I see it yet? The eventful parade of everything I've been working toward? How much change do I need until I can find myself within myself again?

Is excavating your memories a waste of time? Is it retrograde and regressive? Why is it considered so if your past is just everything that went by too quickly to be truely understood? The incomplete portrait I have of myself is just the immature fruit of a wild, untended garden. That garden is locked behind something. Not iron bars, more like a confounding haze, the cold, morning fog I'll always remember inhaling, standing next to my older sister in that old country train station...

What is all of this? I thought myself figured out just a few months ago, but now everything is a gossamere cloud of spider's silk. Where did it come from? Am I my own spider, weaving my own thread-bound, dusty mazes?

I hear an old French resistance song from the 40's on the radio, a man's hopeful voice singing on high for deliverance, singing for some invisible ear. An ear that may not be listening.
Today was their distant future. This moment will be something I'll forget in a few months. And this pompous, self-important trivia will soon be lost in the oceanic abyss of the internet. Why does it matter?

Maybe, because I made something, hands, eyes, mind all working in unison, silent symphonies of the everyday.
I look up and around. I am glad to be here. I am happy with this flowing river.

The questions are currents leading me away. Towards a beckoning beach or deep into some shadow-haunted bog? Who knows?

Maybe both?"