Too unique to be a freak

A brain fogged away by alcohol, conventionality, and dopamine dependence. The head no longer wields attention to its unique advantage due to being manipulated at scale. Are we not entertained into generic beasts?

A clean glass of water wipes away the tears of indulgence. A proper sleep guts the head of neuronal waste. Any subsequent information channel that funnels standardization is mostly trash. Maybe lucid dreaming is a portal to seeing the reality of things?

Dead inside, clinging on to the necessities of good feelings. Memories help keep skin in the game, especially those trophies that celebrate the weird self. The mind curates a movie of life’s encounters. To the pessimist, luck is temporary while the optimist never gets weighed down by the nitty-gritty. How does one counter their private self with public accountability?

One experiences twoness until restitched by the alchemy of time and consciousness. Our best thoughts volley to each other, satisfying two distinct but connected appetites. Who else wants to give themselves a pat on the back for experiencing the brain’s synchronicity?

The experiment with authenticity continues, even more so as the world intrudes on our model. The interior shouting for more assimilation remains futile. Every progression made in this world emerges out of self-interest. After all, being different is attractive. When did any individual care about the science of standardization and likability anyway?

The hipsters round out the edges. The freaks are overly tilted. Both groups align toward the narrowness of culture. The true fence-sitter remains cautious and sharp, balancing the art of acceptance and the resistance to conformity. Doesn’t the economy and the precision in art depend on the free-acting creative individual?