The rabbithole

This way that i want to explore,

has a style to it, unique to me. 

It has some efficient way, that is not to my choosing, but to the choosing of the things that are summoned, by my own essence. 

There is a style, everyone has a style, and the style is never motivated, it never comes out of volition.

It is like a cloud, that has a certain density, and another that looks lighter, almost ghost-like.

If you ask these clouds, they say that they actually come from the same source, that they are the same thing.

But we see them as different. 

This appreciation that we paint in our mind, 

this is what we call style.

Style, 

is given such an immense importance nowadays, and what humans don’t see is that Style, is not the thing that we profoundly respect, 

We just think it is, and in thinking it is, we are all blind to what is hidden, behind every style.

Legends of mankind all had different styles.

Would you say that a Picasso, is more legendary than Myamoto Musashi

Would you say that Jesus, is more of a legend of humanity than Boudha?

You may believe so if you wish, but trying to answer this question will not lead you to the hidden essence of what is hidden behind style.

This is the pitfall,

where everything just drops down so many floors,  where the idea of Death  creeps in with a reptilian fashion, by unexplainable surprise, because you could have never predicted it’s motive.

 This Death, gleaning into it, freezes me, and this freezing has a funniness to it.

Once you catastrophically make contact with the ground.

The Pitfall transforms

This piece of Void, of nothingness, of End. Suddenly changes into this curious room, walls painted from an intricate dance of roots, weaving through the dirt, the rocks.

Snakes flow through them like an influx of electric signal roams within neurons.

Larvae eat at them, like osteoclasts eating away bone.

in this Void, this Death, 

all that remains movemen. 

A movement that, as complex and intricate and beautiful and evoking it could be, is still Nothing.

The Mind attacks from behind, holding you in a clever new way, the salesman of the century.

Its deadly blow, is impossible to escape, 

for it has been diligently practicing and perfecting it’s art, 

The master storyteller, and it’s nighttime child, 

has forever been You.

- Marc Murad