Misbehavior,Theatres & Hunches

Mum adviced me to misbehave myself. To listen to that mental wall that seems to have placed itself in my head, and take the hint. Ignore everything, get drunk with friends, be in the sun, stay up late, do whatever. Misbehave. I think that's not only the best advice anyone ever gave me, especially coming from my Mum; I also think I am more good at it than I would ever want to consciously admit.

I'm thinking a lot these days. Merely half the ponders come out of my head, dressed in rhymes and rhythm in songs and poems, dressed in ink when I draw. The rest is still in here, stirring, whirling around. And I came to realize something. For every time we ourselves have been deeply wounded by someone, we ourselves, in our turn, have deeply wounded someone else, accidentally or non-accidentally. Ain't that it? It's all not much but a circle, going round, round; and in the end... life is just a big theatre, love is a play set there, and during all the different acts, we play every different role of the cast.

Call it that we grow. Call it that we evolve. Maybe that we make some bad decisions, maybe that some decisions seem to be made for us, without us being able to affect it. Sometimes when we can't help it. Like someone close to me recently said, "Believe me, I don't want to feel this way". Do we ever? Aren't we always trying to win over our emotions by being rational, by trying to block things out, by trying to prove we don't care... even if we do get wounded. Even if we do hurt.

Sis said she'd teach me how to be ice cold. But if I was ice cold, it wouldn't be me. I can't help it that I'm an artist's soul. That even if there never was a promise, I still react when the bubble bursts, the bubble that I built myself in my head. Because I imagine. I take things out in advance, and imagine I know what's going to happen. And I don't. Not when I'm picturing it consciously. Only my hunches are right, and hell knows I should have learnt to listen to my hunches a long time ago.

Why is it so difficult? Just... if you have a hunch you shouldn't go somewhere, then don't? But I go anyway, convincing myself it's just a mental ghost trying to haunt me, trying to make things weirded out. The voices in my head. But almost always, when I get there, something happens, and I see the reason I had that hunch, I see the reason why I should have stayed away. And not let myself be hurt, not let myself be torn.

I've got a hunch this once as well, and I'm following it. I'm gonna start following what my guts tell me to. And even if it's one of my best friends. I just can't face that. Cause... it's a subconscious hunch. It's not a scenario that I wanted to happen, that I wanted to come true. I know what will happen if I go, because it flashed me by, and there's no use putting myself out there when I already glanced it by, already recognize it.

Dear Jess, we'll be making most of our weekend anyway in protest.
SWEETED POET in the JAR
Ps. Off to avoid an exam. Ds.

Saving Your Saga

I'm just not one of those happy love stories kinds of people. I don't believe in the happy-go-lucky, the problemless, the easy. I believe one thing above all, that once it's actually right, with love, it should be easy. It should make your life somewhat less heavy to carry, somewhat less difficult to take. But that is a fairytale phenomenon, what we watch in the movies and expect ourselves to find in real life, something that happens once in a million years, something that people pretend is what they've got when in fact they never lived long enough to be able to tell, to be able to treasure.

And is it really beautiful? The stories? Every saga ever told, about the princesses and about the princes and about happily everafter... How was that ever real, how was it ever something desirable, something to strive for? I don't understand.

Call me morbid but there is something so much more enchanting with the miserable stories, with those who fall unhappily in love and are never loved back, those who find a glimpse of passion but lose it to death, those who quarrel in the dark with themselves to avoid being lonely; there's something so much more human and touching in the darkness, in the disloved, in the miserable.
I'll probably keep chasing those miserable feelings, just to feel that I'm not wasting away, that I'm not imprisoned, that I'm not stuck. Anything.

And I'd rather be lonely and miserable than stuck in a merry go round that I couldn't control that would end in happily everafter, with a princess in a tower to which the prince will hold the key... or would I?

Maybe I'm just pretending just as much as that princess is pretending? Maybe I pretend I prefer being miserable so I'll never have to pay the price of being happy, maybe the princess pretends to be happy so that she'll never have to pay the price of being miserable.

But they're one and the same. Two sides of the same coin. Aren't they? Isn't the greatest and happiest of emotions also always the one to come with the greatest of prices, the one to come with the most pain? Nothing comes for free, not in this world.

I'll keep telling my miserable stories, while at least I'm being honest. You stay on your ladder, on your way to saving your saga. To saving your lie.
Pardon the melancholy mood,
POET in the JAR

Everyone's Dark Secrets...

People lie. People keep secrets. I understand parts of it. Everyone does it, everyone has it, everyone has sometimes told a lie, sometimes small, sometimes white, sometimes bigger, sometimes wrong... sometimes right. Everyone has secrets, those dark ones, some stuff they don't wanna think about, they don't wanna share. I'm not saying they should. I never asked of anyone to say things they wanted to keep to themselves, and everyone's dark secrets are their dark secrets to keep.
But... somewhere, there are those lies that were never told to protect anyone, they never were told to make someone safe. Except for maybe the liar that told it... and people keep messing their lives up all by themselves, tip-toeing around every single friend, watching their mouths, afraid that something they might say might give them away or make them go bust. How do you do it? Tangle yourself into complicated patterns, making everything that should be easy as difficult as you can make it, and then go to the utter extremes to protect that difficulty. It's like you want your lives to be complex, like you don't know what to do with it if it wasn't. Maybe that's what it is, too? Maybe you just make up reasons to complicate everything, because if it grew too simple and too easy, you'd be totally lost. You wouldn't know what to fill the emptiness with.

God forbid, you'd actually have to start thinking.

I'm all for secrets. And I believe in some kinds of lies. But not these... not these.
So! No more lying and no more secrets. Anyone asks you something, answer straight. No more complicating things. Make it easy! Life is what you make it to be! And it's no harder than that!
And no more tip-toeing, wondering who will hear if you say this, and if you say that, and if you happen to tell something; just shun it away! If someone tells you a secret, listen, advice, and then forget about it. Clear it out! There's no need why you should keep it in your head when it's already in someone else's. It's enough if one person does the pain.

I blame this sudden optimism on my Beatles playlist.
Greetings,
POET IN THE JAR
Who is seriously considering changing names to
FAERIL in the JAR

Sex Is Death

Sex is death. My old teacher Ron Paul, who taught me most of what I know of literature and most of my appreciation for it as well, was right. In the old days, he'd say, the uptight Brits called orgasms "little death". But it really don't have anything to do with uptight, does it? There is a point in this statement, a statement I always thought sounded silly, just until now, just until I started thinking, as usual late at night.
Why is sex death?
Because nothing else in this world makes you cling on so desperately to living.
Isn't that it? Aren't we all just driven by two fears stronger than all other fears... the fear of dying, and the fear of being alone...? That's the reason you sleep around, looking for a comfort you'll never find in shallowness, in the momentary company. That's the reason you abandon what you know is safe, in order to do something stupid and risky, in order to escape.
In the end you're just afraid of dying.
It's silly, aint it, putting everything down the line to get some fleeting satisfaction, to get some fleeting attention, something that is never worth it, never good enough. You used to find everything you needed within your safe port, but had to abandon it, had to stretch out to see if there was something better somewhere, something different... something you had never known.
You have been doing the same thing all your life and you haven't found it yet. It's still nothing but a mirage on the horizon, still nothing but an illusion, something drifting away from you even as you visualize it before your very eyes.
You're not going to find it.
You're trying too hard to see it if you did.
Am I figuring you out? Am I finally seeing something that could be close to your essence, of your core? If ever I was, it would scare you away, pushing you from me just when I've reconciled with you again...
You don't understand it do you?
That every foolish decision made by those two oldest fears doesn't just affect you, but all of us, all of those around you?
Should I watch you as I see you, as I know your every move before you pan it out, always hoping you'll change your tracks, always knowing you won't...? Should I try and reach out and stop you, before you wreck all of us down, before you tear apart every single thing you managed to build, everything you taught us to accept.
You're abandoning the greater for the worldly. And I never had a hand in matters worldly...
Just think about it. If sex is death, you will go through your life dying a million times, before finally you're no longer walking this earth, and the only mark you'll have left behind are the tombstones, scattered after your trail, giving witness to every time you faded in your days.
I fade away too. I've died a thousand times already. But not in your ways... not the way that you do it. Not the way that you embrace it. I have come a long way to learn that sex, the little death, in the end will be insignificant, will be unimportant. In the end, when you're finally dying the greater death, all that matters will be that you can look back at your life and know w h a t y o u h a v e f e l t...
The only one you can ever know a hundred percent is yourself, it's your own emotions, it's your own feelings, what you yourself defined you by. Nothing else will ever make a difference.
So I'm giving up on little death now, leaving it be for a while. Little deaths are for those still driven by their fears. Fear of dying, fear of loneliness. And even if both of these are still the essence of me, the way they are the essence of everyone; at least I'm aware of it, and I can go to other places, seeking other things...
I'm broke, all my dreams crashed down on me the last few weeks, going from what I had last December to having virtually nothing this January, probably won't all spring; and yet... all I really care for is that I still got my car with a full tank in it... and I'll make the world from there, trying to find those shards of my dreams that scattered out here closely by, before I'll have means to go by other means...
POET iN THE Horoscope-Encouraged JAR
PS. I adress this to my sister. Give up on your foolishness, learn that there are greater things, open your eyes and see the world... without the worldly. You've made enough mistakes to have learnt it by now, all you need is someone to tell you...

Dreaming Kills Us

From the minute we were born, we were given something. Even if the rest of our lives was going to be nothing but a long row of trials, a long row of late night tears, of misery, of self-pity... of dwelling on our guilt, or the one we imagine that we possess. Dwelling on all the feelings in the half of the spectrum that qualifies under torment. Under torture. Under the headline starting with any other word beginning with a T. And maybe those of us who dwelled the most, those who had to live through the worst, used that something the best... and made the most of it.
We never realize it's there.
We use it, every day, to escape, to try and forget the fact that in the end all the ones of us who are too emotional, too empathic, are all just like Izzie, lying on the bedroom floor. You can be in shock. You can have the salt running down your face without knowing why. Without being able to say. But you're there, nonetheless, you're on that floor, in your fancy dress, and blind to all that try and persuade you that your dress has filled its function, that you can't wear it any more.
And you refuse to take it off. Because you know, that the second you do, you have to land again, right back into reality, right back into duties, into practical. That fancy dress, that mask of yours, has to go back on some shelf, and will be forgotten. It will keep that scent. Keep everything about it that made you still close, that made you still surreal.
If you give up that dress, you give up on hope. You give up on what made you dream. You give in, to what the world will try to make of you, another cog in the machinery, another part of the big picture to make it all run smoothly. The world wants you to believe that you're vital. And that you'll make a difference. That someone will know whether you are here or if you're not.
But the only ones who will notice, you will always be uncapable of seeing. They'll all be invisible to you, and you'll always be invisible to them.
Or at least in your eyes.
We dream.
We dream because that's what we were meant to do.
We were never supposed to make some machinery run, or to go through our lives on routine... avoiding to hope and to nurture our visions of the future, because we were too afraid to be burned again, too afraid to be hurt.
Those who really suffer... those who have really sacrificed themselves to the world... to what they are expected to be... are the ones who never dream. Those who have forgotten what it does to you to drift away, forgetting, soaking yourself in everything that wasn't here, that wasn't real, that wasn't now.
That said... dreaming will never come easily.
Dreaming kills us, day by day, making us believe things that will never come true, making us believe we can hold on to something. To anything.
Anything that will hold us away from what pains us.
And then we fall.
We crash down, and we fall.
It hurts. It hurts like hell. And none of us knows how to live with it. None of us knows how the hell we're gonna make it through another day, when just breathing is hard enough, when all we want to do is to give up, to cave in, to sleep... to disappear.
It costs to chase a dream. Some of us don't even know what we want. What we desire. We're left in constant confusion, and constant ponder and worry. Maybe, for us, that cost grows rapidly, with every step we take, with every hesitation.
Or maybe the ability to dream, and to fall by the hands of it, is the very cost in itself...
POET in the Dreamy JAR

No More Death, Savvy?

The household fly, an extraordinary creature. Behold, as it carries its own weight on those smallish and thin wings, and how it searches for food with its little trout, carefully making its way across the surface it's currently attached itself to. Look, as it uses its remarkable feet to become, literally, a fly on the wall, a fly on the floor, a fly in the ceiling, on an old receit, on your auntie's nose.

And now, look very carefully, as they come to us, and we wave them off, irritably.

Watch as it goes on its daily hunt for food, and SMACK, there comes the newspaper crashing down upon the unknowing being, making a whole fly family grief desperately, and all for no use.
Who are the flies?
Bugs?
Or just something that bugs us?
Either way we happily smash them, stomp on them, and have them assassinated in various ways, out of nothing but sheer irritation.
What if we were those flies. What if we were proud to have received the most precious of all treasures one could ever get - to live. And what if it was us who were being randomly slaughtered, butchered, and thrown away with the trash, as if we were worthless...
There's nothing else to it, is there?
We are just like the flies, with the one difference that we take out our barbarism on eachother. And if it doesn't happen to us in particular, we're better off not looking. Not caring.
Call me strange, but I've always been of the idea that we have something in common with every living thing we come across, every living thing that we slay. We got life.
And if we're really gonna impune on the respect that they earn for it, is it too much to ask that we do it for a purpose?
That we do it as long as it's about kill, or be killed, eat, or be eaten; live, or die... feed, or starve.
So no, take that newspaper back.
I will not touch another innocent life, no matter who decides that a human's life is automatically worth more.
No.
I could have been that amazing little household fly.
And that household fly could have been me...

NO MORE DEATH, SAVVY?
says the POET in the JAR

Less Than Reason

It's not easy.
Who said it would be?
My mum's solution for all kinds of problems is "everything happens for a reason". Whatever problem you lay before her feet, she immediately starts pondering in detail what the reason for it happening could be. It can drive me totally bonkers! Believe that there's a greater destiny for all you want, but admit it, we humans mess things up perfectly on our own, without any divine intervention. Sometimes it seems to me that people hide behind the "reason" idea so that they can just pass everything on as "meant to be", accept it, and live on.
Am I stupid not to do that?
Sure as hell I'd like to believe it. Sure as hell it'd make everything so much fucking easier. And why?
Let me tell you why.
It's because the idea was invented for all those people out there in the world who aren't grown enough to take responsibility for their own actions. Cause - effect. If I slap you in the face, you will be hurt. If I give you a compliment, you will probably smile. Cause - effect! Nothing else.
But my Mum goes, "well, if you hadn't done that, then this and that wouldn't have happened" and makes all the fucking bad stuff appear as though they paved the way for some mysterious, greater good, some mysterious, greater purpose.
I don't buy it.
If I screw up, I've screwed up, and I gotta face it, gotta deal with it, and have it overwith. I gotta face the anxiety and the regrets.
All you others just try to catch the easy way out...

Amorously Ambiguous

Listen. You'd think in this place, in this country, in this world, in this universe for God's sake, we'd be free. Free enough, at least, in love. Why do everyone keep believing that the ultimate way of loving someone is one man and one woman loving eachother? And if it's so accepted with homosexuality, why do people go around carrying their secrets inside of themselves, afraid anyone will find out? Why do we always say that it's okay to live, and love, however you want, but still you find people making the most revolting remarks and giving the most disgusted looks if anything you do differs from themselves, and their way of living?
But that's not really the burning issue, the topic that makes my cheeks burn and heart to throb. It's the monogamy issue I'm being the most passionate about. I'm simply saying, who the hell invented the "core family"? That what you're simply supposed to do in life is find someone of your opposite sex, love that person forever and get the kids nature intended you to breed, and go on to buying the Volvo and the dog and whatever. Why does it matter? Why can't we just use our hearts, so tremblingly full to the brim of emotions in conflict with eachother, to love everyone we happen to love and be happy with it? Isn't it possible to find your heart beating faster for more than one person? To want to stay in the warm embrace of your friends and wishing at times that you could have them all as lovers?
Even though you might know the feeling, you'd automatically sort it out as "wrong". Wouldn't you? Cause that's what you've been taught all a while you grew up, innit? That feeling, you'd call it cheating, you'd call it backfiring passion, you'd call it being the player type of person. You'd call it being young and wild and naive, rebellious, not knowing which way to turn so you choose the most trendy one of being amorously ambiguous.
Give it up!
I know my heart.
I know the size and the volume of it.
I know that there is one person that I'm so fond of that I could never abandon and never would want to. And I know that there is another person, completely different, that constantly clouds my thoughts, that constantly turns my rainy day into sunshine. I know that there is a third person always hanging in there for me, who's the one my steps spontaneously take me to whenever I'm lost. I know that there's a fourth person, however far away physically, always brings a smile on my lips and a shiver down my spine, who I miss sometimes so much it hurts.
All these people are different from eachother. They differ in gender, they differ in personality and in looks, they differ in the type of bond I've got with 'em. And still... they are so much the same, because they make the same kind of feelings send pulses through my body. The pulse and passion of the deepest love and the most tender desire.
Why won't you let me?
Why can't I be free in love?
Is it wrong, really, to be with 'em all, with the same kind of bond?

Here, is where my problem lies. Here, is the source for my constant unhappiness. For however nice and dandy things might look like, this is one of the things that keep me down. Deeply unhappy. I can't help that I feel this way. That I have warm emotions for more than one person. More than the person I'm supposed to love. It doesn't mean I love that person any less. On the contrary. But what it does mean is that I have to suffocate myself, my feelings, my soul, in order to stick around. For the moment I admit what the case really is like, I'm considered the cheat. The liar. The inconsistent, unreliable, restless temptress. Which is so far away from my personality that the unfair accusation of it haunts me. And still it's there. I'm sure you know it too.

Don't hate me now, fellas. Just airing an opinion and a state of mind that has been hovering over my mind for a very long time and that needs to take a walk in the sun.
THE CURRENtLY UNSATiSFiED AND WONDERING WONDROUS
POET iN THE jAR

In Exhange For A Dream

I cry.
So what?
Just cause all you other fellas have overdeveloped into emotionless, apathic vegetables that don't care about nothing. You don't care cause it's easier that way. Easier to tell yourself what you just saw on TV isn't real, it's fake, just horror stories, all for entertainment.
But I watch TV, and see some kid being heartbroken cause someone failed a promise to him, a promise to take him out of his situation, taking him out of being a child soldier.
And you know what? That someone, that what's-his-name, goes home, flies all the way back to America, and does what?
He drinks.
Drowns all his pain in booze.
I'm watching all this and I cry. Can't help it, the tears just come, they're just flowing down my cheeks like the river Kwai. And it's not because of that someone. Not because he was too busy obeying orders and drowning his poor judgeless self in liqour.
It's because of that kid.
I don't even like kids.
What is it then? What is it that is getting to me, getting to the Poet, too emotional, too caring for her own good? Too goddamn emo?
Well. It's the way his eyes fade and die. The way that tiny little flare of hope just flickers, and goes out, and that dawning comprehension sweeps in over his face. That he was just being used for better purposes. That most people don't know what a promise is. Don't know what a promise is worth.
He was, just... all he wanted, was to get out. Far out. That's all he wanted. That was his dream.
And they don't even tell him.
They throw him a couple of dollar bills for payment.
Dollars.
In exchange for a dream.
It's absurd.
The flare goes out in his eyes, and is replaced by another flare. Flare of hatred. Flare of heartbreaking disappointment. The image of that kid, just going wild, sobbing and screaming with his little broken and undignified voice, it just burnt into the inside of my eyelids, and I can't see anything but it.
I can't sleep.
He doesn't ask if that someone had lied.
He simply states it.
Sobbing... and screaming. Even though his voice is more like a whisper:
"You lied! You promised! You lied to me! You lied! Why did you lie? I hate you! I hate you, I hate you!"
And I cry.
That's what's the world like. All the time.
Grown-up people take away the young people's dreams.
When I was little, everyone loved what I wrote. Everyone thought I was a gifted child, wanted to see what I had written that day, everyone was curious, they encouraged me.
And when it was about time to start and become a little responsible in life, they took it away from me.
They took away my dream.
I don't wanna be like that little kid.
I don't wanna be deserted.
Left alone.
Without hopes, without faith, only tears, and anger, and hate.
Most of all I can't stop thinking about that kid.
That someone has nurtured his hatred for another solid decade.
And he's still there. Still out there. Left in the world, no one to care, no one to take him away.
I cry.
So what?
Just cause all you other fellas don't dare to.

Exploiting The Spotlight

Hear this one out. You're at work, right, at the gas station. And this guy comes in complaining about the high prices on gas. Now, that happens at least once a day, but something about this particular bloke and this particular day and the particular mood you happen to be in, changes things a bit. This customer goes rallying on about how he's always bought the same amount of petrol, 50 litres, and how it used to cost 400 crowns, then 500, and now 600; and you stand there behind the counter, just waiting for him to cough up what it costs, I mean, if he really thinks it's that expensive, why doesn't he just buy for 400 crowns and be happy with how many litres he gets? But no, he's got to tell you this story, which he probably tells at every gas station to everyone that happens to be behind the counter. And you listen to all this, and you realize all you want to sympathetically say is: "Yeah, they should really figure out a cheaper way to exploit the developing countries of their natural resources so that you can save a few bucks on your way from checkpoint A to checkpoint B." But you don't, and why don't you?
Because you're service-mind impersonated. Which is what keeps you around in this business.
So all you do is nod and go, "Agreed, the prices will never cease to rise," while you're thinking of making this perhaps silly little anecdote the subject of your next blog post.
And all of this business make me go thinking of all the people out there working in stores and cafés and boutiques that don't have a single ounce of that service-minded thing. They just scan you from top to toe and spit out, "45,5 crowns," without greeting, without saying goodbye when you leave, and most certainly, without the small talk.
Might just be me, but I'm sick of that kind of people.
When I'm at work, no matter what, if I'm feeling like a sun ray or if all I wanna do is fall apart in some corner and cry my hearts out, I stay service-minded. I smile and I'm happy and I joke with the customers, even those who aren't even regulars, because of two things.
One, nice personnel is what people remember first when they think about a place, and my job is what keeps the family business going. Ensure the family, ensure that smile.
Two, the happier I act, the happier I actually do become. Always thought this was bullshit and didn't work, but it does. Most of the time, you know, can't feel like you're walking on pink clouds 24/7, but at least for most part. Or a small part.
Over to something else, for anyone of you who might have had the patience of reading this far.
Got 27K behind me, soon up in 30. If I reach 30 today I'll be where I should have been by yesterday, so I'm not that far behind. Gonna catch up with all that before I head downtown to pick up my library books.
See ya around.
And thanks for that spotlight.

Prisoner Of Mind

For you I'd wait 'til kingdom come
Until my days, my days are done
And say you'll come and set me free
Just say you'll wait, you'll wait for me.

Coldplay / Til Kingdom Come
________________________________

I've got all these thoughts buzzing in my head, wheeling about in there, confusing me, at the same time as they make things easier. I don't understand how people bare to have this carousel inside them all the time. And if I think this is tough, then consider how many people live in this country, on this continent, in all of this world. Every single one is having just as complicated series of thoughts, it might even be in this very moment. Aint that a hell of a workload for, say, someone who could hear all these arguments tripping over themselves, encouragements, down-feelings, every thought! Guess the only one who could would be God, but since I don't really believe there's someone up there, least not now he's seen what free will does to people - well, the conclusion I draw is that if there exists someone who could read all these minds, well, then I'd have to admit it would be some kind of supernatural being. Not denying or confirming anything. Anyway, maybe this is the reason why I tend to feel uncomfortable when there's a lot of people moving around, all of their thoughts and feelings, the idea that all of them are wrestling with such feelings and thoughts that I do, or similar at least, it's just overwhelming, I can't get it into my head. Well, pondering about it, actually, I can't get this idea out of my head.
How do people gather the strength to keep going in life? Don't they ever just realize that there's no point, it don't take us anywhere. But no, folks are too busy worrying about themselves and how they're gonna live up to their dreams and how to redecorate their homes, anything to keep outta mind what's all gonna happen to us in the end, that when they're gone they aint gonna matter anymore, it's just one person more or less. I think most people have thoughts like these when they're like me, young and critical and stuff, but after a while they get sick of trying so hard for nothing, and as they grow older, all they care about is to make themselves happy enough as not to regret how they lived their lives when they die. I'm not saying it's wrong, it just strikes me as a bit unfair. Look, we got this one life in this world. (For you who might believe in reincarnation, we've got this one life at a time in this world.) And this one chance to do something, to make a difference, to matter to people. We shouldn't be fighting over the silliest stuff, or waging war, there shouldn't be a need for anyone to be hostile against eachother. I don't understand why people just can't let eachother be. People! You don't have to hold hands, but couldn't you just accept the fact that people think and live differently, and leave eachother alone?
Why is it that this is so hard? I think if you asked the people of this world what they truly desired, and they were given the chance to speak absolutely freely, the majority of the answers you'd get would not be the words 'go to war'. Too many of us out there are brainwashed by those who hold the power. Yeah, you gotta do this for the sake of your country, you gotta do this to keep us free, but the moment you let them words sink in, free is the exact opposite of what you are. You are a prisoner of your own mind and of the impressions that are stuffed into your head about who you should act like, what you should think and what you should be.
I'm gonna illustrate this with the refrain of POTF song Illusion and Dream.

It's whatever makes you see (Others decide what you should see)
makes you believe (And you believe in what you are shown)
And forget about the premonition you need to conceive (And forget that you have a mind of your own)
That the images they sell are illusion & dream (You don't understand that you are being fooled)
In other words dishonesty (That it's all a game they play with you)

Signed,
THE POET IN THE JAR