Trapped within the confines of a book. A book with hand picked words already wrote. Nothing new may be added to the story that is out of the ordinary. But if it is hand written in, amongst the scribbles. It will have no order, no face to put recognition to its place.
The mind in anarchy unable to place.
face. You are no longer unique. Your words, your individuality stripped
away and placed in boxes. Flat boxes with 2 sides in a dimensional
You are not the coder, you are not the creator of this book any longer. Yet it is about you.
It operates under the guise to place you as lead or best in show.
If it were your show you would be writing the lines.
If it were your show, your actions, your words, your heart, would direct its flow.
There's no such place as that which you claim to be from. So it will not be placed in the box, the box will remain empty.
There is no such language that you claim to speak. So the box will remain empty.
The fantasy choked out from the grid lines that comprise the network.
The face. Comprised of lines, scars, and pores to abore.
chiseled into the fabric of your pallet. Drawn to your story like a
moth to the flame. Like a flower to the sun, like a dog to a bone.
Where's the box for that.
Where's the box for your heart.
The expanse would be too great to contain. Yet we created 4dimensional walls in a 2 dimensional space for 3 pointed symbol.