From the smashing orbit of deconstructing flame a dusty plateau incarnates itself to provide a canvas for basic expression. Forced into solitude by the everlasting isolation carved by the mountain folds wrapped around its far reaching edges. Unable to grasp onto a firm ideology due to the sparseness of accessible anchorage and the relentless whip of a northerly wind over the dusty plate.
With all the circles of hell standing available like carnival rides the allure was clear. It was a dangerous theme park ready to chew us up before being digested by twisting acidity and splattered unceremoniously on infertile ground, but the spirit of youth is not so easily waylaid. A subtle song of melancholy was carried on the notes of hope. A magnetic lure for adventurous folk.
The spirit is able to reincarnate periodically, spurred into realization by unusual circumstances and moved towards expression by ironic forces. For once it’s beating heart can roar and lay bare all the shortcomings of a thousand generations, while accepting the misfit manner thereof. Reincarnated, but only for a moment. The spirit of the wild; no man has the ability to cage such a thing.
Mischief is a spark to the tinder of the soul
If mischief is the spark, comradery is the good furnace
That continues to kindle in all spaces
Which gives us the freedom to move beyond convention
And move together through crazy spaces in harmony
A band of misfits united in anti pursuit
An abandonment of your homogeneity
An end in itself, not a means towards an end
A collective arousal of misguided judgments
A wishful salute to the power of anarchy
A purposeless venture made pointless by non-participation
With a yawning rabbit hole tempting the confident
To forgo the safety nets of your industrial apparel
And open yourself up to a different paradigm
One which is liquid and undeterred by your past bruises
To relish that all things will burn
That all things are temporary
To observe reincarnation.