Dwelling thoughts

The icy feel of the steel door on my knuckles as they rap against it's hard surface...hoping against hope that inside, inside I might still be able to find...what we can be, again and over still.

The Gods are dead! Gone are the idols...any idol.  Values are revalued devaluating the life we have, might have and have had...  Only hollow concepts now remain, they remain laying flat, sandwiched between morbid texts tattooed with the fake flowers of junkies chasing their own fake flowers from others. Empty concepts kept barely alive with incremental servings of gruel introduced intravenously into their phallic vein confined in those steel cells devoid of the suns reinvigorating rays or the soothing blanket of the moons shadows.

The lights and darks, beams and shadows, contrasts and patterns don't exist here only true death: nothing.   No emotion here, for that contradicts the life, or rather, the lack thereof here.  The most sterile of all; a straight up surgeons wet dream minus the orgasm. 
I'm no longer what I was when I existed as an idea, as eidos... I wasn't a thing, a base object to be stacked upon one another, next to and beneath others to make an academic thought; rather I was part of a relation with you as you stood in front of me, when you stood with me.  And together with the word we traveled together even after you had long disappeared, within the living word that you set up to stand for all those who came after to listen to from out of it's un-concealdness: your true creation.  You created me not through some action but because you knew of me, saw me widely and thought me out into the clearing for me together with your original knowing to think me to others; a true technite.

You are now along a vein of thought believed long collapsed not from overuse like those of a junkies dead forever, but rather like those of an astronauts limbs where blood ceases to flow after time spent in zero gravity for too long.  Dead in death floating in the above abyss but able to live in life below on firm ground; that is what you are struggling back down to.  Can you feel the soil pad your plodding strides back to the origin, where you will think originary thoughts better than those who originated them.

Thinking originary thoughts better than those from whence they came.  One needs to question this statement before and to avoid blindly heading fore.  You come from above, from that empty space you blasted into after shooting your Gods in the face cutting all cords with the values, your anchors that kept you grounded with life.

From up on high you fish down into life catching these steel encased concepts in the holey nets of magnetic isms.  Hoisting them up floating them into some kind of groundless patchwork quilt floating in space ready to breakup again when someone needs a piece or two to complete their own pattern.

But you are down here, not there anymore.  You see now that the steel prison is not a prison and the steel is merely an adaptation to prevent what is inside from disappearing forever.  There is a door, it is small but you are just able to enter.  Inside you spark a blunt, your torch, to expand the light of your thoughts and realize you have comeback to the beginning; the place where you always were and have been.  Now you can see, dwelling with this eidos you think what has and always will continue to be thought so you realize you can hear! I can hear! but I now hear a faint rapping coming from outside these walls...