Notgnixel, Middle of October…fall, dust in the streets, loud dumpsters, raccoons forging meals – scratching, screaming, the sound of bottles rustling. The streets are empty for now, just a few bums scattered telling stories to whomever listens, way too many pick-up trucks parked on the side of the roads with nothing lying in their bed. Sparks of life ignite the dispersed beer cans that litter the yards like confetti. Far too many cops on patrol, either idling down side streets in their cruisers or standing outside of the gas station, gossiping to each other, often getting in a few giggles. The commies all seem to be in their mid-twenties as well. For some reason that life never shined. The badge in this case represents something much less. In some ordeals, what could be an excuse to provide an outlet for a very confused alter-ego happens to be something much deeper. Once, Living proof of the parallel of “The Real Housewives of Orange County” and “The Real Police of Etteyaf County.” Still, they remain idle, bored carefully eyeing and judging. Tonight, the booty will be plenty.

The drunk shuffle in, flat-tires and gocart sensations. The Thursday transformation is unique to this town; it’s tradition, long and deep rooted. It stems from old, archaic values concerning the gallows of alcohol, the states proud creation. The citizens bask and bath in this relic of the past, not a care in the world. The dio, Limestone reigns above all and purifies the water to be just right.

“Leave grandpa’s medicine out of this – it’s just too good, too embedded.” This of course said only with a sincere grave tone reminiscent of the Prince among men, their alpha-male, none other then Clint Eastwood. Of course, this compliment is proclaimed with utter confidence in the joys that derive from experiences in the land of the wolves. Be a bigger wolf and your experiences will shine brighter. There’s always room for an incredible switch, no matter how bad a situation. If Eastwood could be personified, it would have this kingly sort of bright day in the land of the blue grass. On a good day, perhaps one man has dreamed of this place. Sure everyman dreams, but to dream of this place requires imagination that derives from within, unbeknownst to any previous interaction or experience. Still, it’s possible to be positive while ambiguous. It wouldn’t be fair to asses a fantasy to elude a hierarchy from within. Still, there it is. The frontier, the budding creation at its peak and first ritual, the one story that stories become of.

The mid-1800’s, an authentic, leather-skinned, self-rolled cigarette smoking cattle-man charging upon this town, and just for a moment hoping for something better. Slowing his horse down and grasping the moment. Taking a sigh of confidence and gradually, while taking in the vagrant landscape, glancing from west to east with a slide nod about him. “A town called Redemption” he declares under his breath, spearing his flag into the ground. Expelling the energy which quickly whisks away to be sought out or inhaled.

Clearly, others were breathing different air. It’s not just here though. This pocket of darkness just acts as microcosm to depravity and the selfish absorption of time. Can it be overwhelmingly obvious that the only way for a place in such dire conditions to rise up to a challenge is for its citizens to wake? The shackles upon you are destroyed once awareness to the reality is heightened. Declare your porpose. Invest in your surroundings, bring them to life with your best laid plans. Some lay gripped, slumped over as if in an opium den in China. The cheap comforts take their toll and override conscious decision. Even when it is simple as making up one’s mind. It often discards any relativity between kin when one decides to complicate the most simple situations for no other reason but amusement. So that they can idle in their time period and gather entertainment from a particular situation they control or, more often then not, fantasize about controlling. Locking themselves down, anchoring in quicksand.

This confused subordinate of a town is a deformed stamp of a dream that went south. The ironclad jaw that resides as the backbone is found on the warriors who prefer to remain settled. They also spectate a shifty beaurocracy, shamefully bedridden since creation. It’s time of great success remains a mystery to just about everyone. They knew it wasn’t something that was to last too long, that was never in the cards. Those who came didn’t come from too far. But when they came, many of them came, especially those who used to fold up in their tucked away towns begging for bright lights to light up their darkness. Still, the bright lights are cheap thrills, casting only shadows. Too many huts – guinea pig chains, a few bank buildings and a handful of strip clubs; one in particular with a reputable all-you-can-eat buffet. With such a twisted picture and grey overcast, its a wonder why the populous is confused. The light flickers occasionally, it’s yet to fade.

There needed to be an untrained eye. An optical capable of picking up details that others are taught to forget. The small actions that speak louder then the gregarious echos. Detect, get to know, and invest in. Remember who is the town and who is the supreme morphine of energy making decisions and marking decisions. Taking inventory of the forgotten as well as the anticipated. The untold abyss of lost capables, too many times before. Someone with drive, to outlast the synthetic subversion and overcome the pleas of idleness, to detach from distraction and employ subtraction. This eye can reside on any of the populous. It resides in between the two eyes and is nothing but the fountain of youth. Learn to use it, deny requests to suppress it and consistently make a rule to move forward and persevere. The unfolding history could be nothing but a static roller-coaster to the next intersection in our helix, or your fascination  paradigm falling to your love of reality.

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