The wannabes decoded

 Today - .

Here we are, a bunch of words being tossed left to right, read in no real measure but mistaken for the identity crisis - that so, so many too few, relish the thought.

I think a lot about the times, countless to me, when social contracts concern the most frivolous (of people's inhibition lack thereof).

It aims at inspiration, those that turn the corner, in search of nothing but from what they hear, perhaps voices of a cerebral ghost. It makes the mind wander to a perfect solution, that only the controversy of a legal purist, actually fears themselves. Have it been forgotten, has it, that grief stricken madman, "I hold such a power over myself, that you are warned, not to proceed." Then, a thought felt mind, much like the same riddle unbeknown'st to it's true place of origin, refuses to acknowledge the fact.

So, instead - this legal purist not dressed in uniformity, but merely a group of made up wannabes emerge, that the circle of memory, might never change in that infinite satire of wit, raw emotion, so stand-off'ish.

It's taken a strong sense of decoding the sense, people haven't yet found, such a hat worn in a fashionable manner. Instead, they use words as if to convey how insulted you should be because they've so cleverly disguised them, so clever they in fact are, you could set yourself on fire right then and there. Yet, there's a reason for all of it that can only suggest one thing, look at a man in the mirror image of himself, there he is in defense of logic. Looking at yourself in the same mirror, the other man (you are) projecting (mental) sophistication. Mirrors were meant to be broken.

Yet, here they are those that fall into the same category of virtue upon knowing, that somehow words, yes somehow, illustrate a double meaning, a form of double jeopardy, that if he\she pointing that gun at you over here, then there instead it is that - you asked me to. Yes, the gunman has blamed not himself, but is as expected, the poor soul at the other side of the cocked barrel of a gun, has given the shooter permission to make his mark the target of something inspired. Perhaps, even legendary to the day such double jeopardy made it's way into your life, like the stake driven right beneath you, under your nose stabbing fate in the back. Ouch that must have hurt some.

Look at how clever he is, spending countless minutes, inside the infamy of Plato's cave, to come out the other end. A notary public. Such a novelty of a woman figure, justice of the peace, so help me God.

Look at the transformation from citizen Cane to the dutiful Euthyphro, a knowledge only a legal purist can acquire - the same cannot be said for those less than fortunate as I . He sees no problem with that, that even if he should, will not do so.

One must find answer in the why was it that Plato himself went to such further-est, further from, the very extreme point of defecting association.

More importantly, how does one seed the idea, that this valiant effort in no romantic discourse should it allow itself to procure a legal purist in and of itself.

I know the answer, exclaimed Plato, we will look to prove it upon ourselves, that this abnormal next to moral group of nomads, only seek to destroy the relics of justice through a parody in plot. The ploy is, as I have detailed in discuss, that the law cannot be brought against my own bribery of it, that sensational satisfaction of what a legal purist must entail some form of chauvinist degree. I understand this, would Plato wannabe, the legal purist in action can always dismiss the cause before him, that no natural cause can free a legal purist from it. I am a genius, a pure mathematical genius, without such poetry or physical philosophy which can outperform above it.

This will lead us to the segregation of church, then state, that religions can recycle man's vanity of himself, into a divided line of good vs. evil. Yes, this is mythology at its finest hour cried the Plato of wannabe.

They will all wannabe, wannabe a legal purist, where my heart is safer-est, in a cave of excellence, a shadow of my former self, my former primitive lust for romance.

Not only will it define generations to come, it will bring about defiance, those that seek wannabe status, will conform to my cheat proof philosophy without the skill to acquire from others, that others, despite their daring efforts, are true to double jeopardy, because we the legal purists have the gun in our hands, it will not be left smoking unless we are then forced by our own admission to pull the trigger. It is impossible for that to happen, I-M-P-O-S-S-I-B-L-E. People we know will speak without thinking, we will hear without knowing, they will listen to themselves without praying a word, a word named guilt, or death, or whichever came first the chicken or the egg. No matter, I will quickly write as though Euthyphro imagines it, a legal purist to that stubborn old twit, the Socrates.

What a fabulous story he's written for me, this double jeopardy with a clever twist, no plot, just a string of yarn, Euthyphro will have no conversation with the other, it wouldn't matter who is spoken in the theatre of lies, Euthyphro will demonstrate. Have you pulled a trigger, Socrates will say no, is there a smoking gun, Socrates will predictably reveal it is in Euthyphro's hands, which will then lead the Socrates astray, defiantly. Yes, all those legal purists will follow such a perfect example, of what to listen for, yes they are L-I-S-T-E-N-I-N-G, but they do not hold the power to think, for we the legal purists do not allow them to think, it is the legal purists who do in thought. We act as though we are listening. The listening now then is thought.

That wooden leg Plato must have made for himself, when hijacking the train to nowhere (might it rest in a present state of mind), yes thought Plato, the legal purists have the power to grant the right, but hold this power against the others will. Listening is a chore, if they M-A-K-E me listen, that fool Socrates. Euthyphro has him in the cave, which Socrates wants to escape but only out of fear for he cannot. Socrates the moralist, will not take me for a ride on the great D-O-U-B-L-E-J-E-O-P-A-R-D-Y.

Shame on Socrates.

So, here in my cave I will stay. Content is not public, but divided in two unequal parts.

(Laughter, through courses of barking is heard echoing in the distant background.)