The kids are alright

“Probably she had crushed her hand while swinging round one of the big kaleidoscopes on which the plots of novels were ‘roughed in.”  It was a common accident in the Fiction Department.” George Orwell

He looked at the road below his feet, moving, trapped on a conveyor belt of dark dreams. Ideas appeared as paintings before his eyes, flowing through his body, unable to define their presence, or their origin.  The question remained as his mind, invaded by a mechanical spider, in waveform fluctuating throughout the dark residence of the factory; could he ever again touch what once belonged to him?   A crystal web weaved throughout my body, reversing my thoughts, feeling everything backwards.  Pushing me outside of what the spider now claimed his own.   Bubbling within me, seeing through the center of every thought, her voice.  She was trapped in the web, she seemed to fall down further with each look into my eye.  Warning me about the children, telling me we must remember.  By moonlight they began to take them away. Traveling up a cliff with burning torches in the moonlight, the children were disappearing. Their cries flowing through my blood, closing my eyes as my heart remained open.  The conveyor belt became all my ears could hear.  The conveyor belt where in the deepest depths of my thoughts, a part of me assembling it all.  She continued to visit me, she continued to take part in my creation, the creation that became a deeper web impossible to see beyond.   Crushed below her creations, watching them taken away in the night, their cries transformed into voices of acceptance as her mind perceived.  She sold all she ever had to find the ability to feel.  Looking through the spider’s eyes there was not a single area to focus on, millions of perspectives and not one that makes sense in the eyes of my previous center.  Our thoughts engineered, tinkering with our minds like a game, a minefield, a web of lies seen through a distorted lens.  A lens impossible to make sense of when we still had the ability to remember.   Feeling everything, seeing nothing.  Watching her fall over it looked like myself, dark eyes upon me, not helping her, not even thinking about it.  Watching her pain, no one to blame but myself.  Trapped in the kaleidoscope we’ve created together, the ideas, sapped from the brains of the children lighting my way.  There appears nothing within my sight as my thoughts travel through a vacuum into a web which we all continue refusing to see.  We must tell no lies to ourselves, the reason for this factory, as the fog dissipates from my eyes, making lies more believable in a few simple phrases.  The lies can never feel believable, only slightly more palatable than facing the truth.  What of the truth?   A slightly psychotic man continues to control me through a mechanical spider, a woman, existing little more than an appartition follows me throughout my workday, looking at me and turning away as my eyes focus upon her.  The factory which holds my life in the balance, controlling all my thoughts and actions.  Growing slowly everyday, more surface, more darkness, every beat of my heart, another door opens, a new wing to the structure is built.  Yet still the freedom to open my arms and look to the sky frees me from any solid belief.  My childhood still exists below my feet, everything felt through my eyes passes before me even though, ceaselessly rewritten from birth, truth seems without definition.  But I have the power to know there needs to be no definition of what form  I breathe from as long as I still have the ability to remember

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