Ode to whatever is simple and unholy

 It never mattered whether it was day or night or evening or dusk or haziness. It never mattered whether I felt raindrops on me or violent wind or something as tender as love and care. I was infinitely regressed towards an infinitely large singleton loneliness, and the cars honked because they were late for work, people passed by because they had promises to keep, mouths to feed, and most of the time unconsciously submitting to a prison of made up security from a made up world. I sold myself like almost the rest of humanity to put food on my table, to have a place to sleep the night out, I sold myself and the devil had many faces, yet sometimes just an idea, a small fraction of dizzying freedom burst forth like a suppressed sunshine under the clouds, making me lonelier and lonelier still. Loneliness blooms and jellyfishes bloom like lilies under deep-sea into a forever compelling dream of obscurity that this life- whenever needed, had to end in a dignified way. So when my mind loses itself into complete anarchy, I always listen to poets and artists and people who did not wander off from a difficult terrain, and I always see that happiness is not a virtue to strive for, rather something which makes people lazy, unimaginative and unholy. Cars do honk, people do pass by, time still flies, and we experience death far before our bodies start to falter, we experience death in living a simple unimaginative life guarded by made up minds, made up security, made up connectedness. I am hollowed out, but I can still breathe.