Forbidden Shells (Reality)


1. Forbidden Shells (Reality) by Maria Fokas

I woke up this morning from the inside out; opened my eyes to a broken day –
He asked me if I knew anything about reality, but who can claim to know? It would have to be an objective lad, but minds are subjective most of the time. Maybe there’s one percent that knows, but what would they say? : “I know that I cannot possibly be objective when cultured to think a specific way, and regardless of what I choose opposed to what I deny, could it be the inner voice of my subjective world? How could we know?”

We can’t know, but we can know about Holidays, and so to honor the seasonal spirit (holiday food-for-thought):
Do you want to live in a world the way it is now? This reality? “No…not at all,” I heard him say: Some notes just catch my attention – I can’t help it.
I’m going to tell you, stay with me please – Wait . . . it doesn’t matter what I think. Yesterday someone planted a seed in my head (but was it already there?). Who wants to live in a world where the majority work simply to survive, where the criminal act of taxation is condemning our dreams and owning the one precious thing that life gives us arbitrarily; Time – yes, time – a world which drains creativity out of a child’s heart – where the word “Love” is losing its color; its scent; its sanctuary. I wonder if we can “uncreate” the world we’ve created. Write it down – Tell the story inside of you; not the one they carefully placed on top of yours.

Are there no words to save us?  – Hope maybe? “I’m hoping, if tomorrow I wake, to find a baked roll on my breakfast spread, prettier than a diamond tiara,” Modern Sleeping-Beauty said. Christmas was just around the corner, and then it was over – Sweet Santa made a trip to the US of A, on Christmas Eve, then headed over to Ireland for the best Irish coffee in the whole wide world – a few laughs, many secrets, and finally, he’ll make his way over to the Europeans (those who open gifts on New Year’s Eve). Santa is generous; it’s the best time of year; an important man was born in December, and since then – it’s been the season of light – snap – but no cinnamon rolls for my love. I was lost and he found me; will I survive when he goes away? I want to read a sentence that lasts 150 words . . . can you find me that sentence, please? I’ll be patiently waiting behind the window-pane. But no, I won’t.

 

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