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The

Warring

Yang

The road was a simple one for her to travel idly on. Walking only on the left and to the right, alternating, shifting and chemically readjusting her biological weight against the physical manifestation of her environment – she boggles with the co-ordinates of her system; which is aligned to the tilted centre of gravity of some massspinning relatively gently around, orbiting burning massthat is respectively parallel to her ever twisting understanding of horizontal and vertical. So positioning internally with sensesof doctrine handed down from decadesof understanding and confirmation of the same, she confidently moves on. The rising sun proves every psychic’s predictions – daily.

He was sitting primitively on the corner of some hard conjecture, moving slowly but steadily across conditionings into the rather discerning realm lacking any interpretations. The body moved up, and then sideways until the relative up sides of the down trodden slides into fixing reality from fractured faculties of sheer banality fading into obscurity – just a fingers touch away from the lucid grip of flesh and bone protrusions stretched beyond belief. Therefore, absolutely prepared for the ineffable, ignorance slowly walked into a cage of understanding which was designed precisely to entrap it in its conviction.

‘What she did not know’, he bellowed from behind the epicenter of her fountain of hairs, ‘was that she too was susceptible to the manipulations of the mind. The curious case of the interaction presented before itself the eternal paradigm in the long veneering tradition of philosophy. The lack of conclusion and the lack of being present in a platform consistently in order to receive that quality of conviction to reach a formidable conclusion, she reels into unconsciousnessand reverts into more comfortable and well rehearsed adjustments of old disguises. Cinderella does not see her feet bleeding from the road of glassthat she walks blindly on.’ He seesher blood drip from her lips, meandering carefully as it oscillates from one fold of skin to the other, forever making its way up into the cracks of her feet, wetting the ground in patterns reminiscent of forgotten cultural practices.

Lamenting the evident breakdown in communication he looks at her and tries to gain her attention from historical understanding of the same. The purpose is always


granted to be noble, and to a degree most certainly determined by the author, writing or reading depending on the mode of reception. The strings of the past, memories of an older world akin to piecing together a burnt cigarette for another hit of nicotine, tug at her mercilessly to reverse the processof understanding that was evidently taking place and taking over the place that was previously prevalent. The lack of identification of flying sorcerers nullified possibilities of it ever happening – of course not to mention that one was forming right now.

‘Think about it’, he reiterated into her ear, his saliva defying gravity as he drooled against her reality. ‘There is no way to confirm that you may be in here, so that in itself may cause you to fear, but you see, there is no way to tell, heaven from the heat of hell – a cloud may disguise in its cold crystal ice the deception for your eyes. You can see something and feel it too, but without acceptance there is no reality for you to continue. You can never be sure but the belief in it being absolute is so pure – and the questioning thoughtfulness reconciling with the conspiring answers can easily send you down the spirals of the loons as the internal is affected by the external which can be, and the inverse of the following is plausible too, interchangeable.

Do you see how fluid this system is? I think and make it fixed, I am vexed by it and it becomesliquid again, a few drops in the brain and chemically you retain the information to send the chain of breaking right now, pulling the air from under the floor falls down into the depths above – the stars below your feet shooting up – constellations form at the tip of your hair and you do not look up. The ground is pulling you higher and you can see you weight crushing the grass between you and the sky. Falling down. The constellations move through the fragrances of the shampoo and still you look down, holding the grains of sand exactly how you thought you had found them. Up down polar con fusion, fission, splitting division. So catch the doubt before it makes you go mad – the warring yang will mould yin into a piece so rad.

The Warring Yang  

Lamenting the evident breakdown in communication he looks at her and tries to gain her attention from historical understanding of the same....

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