On the hillside, minds innocently running, bodies parallel to the blanketed stars. Smiling, pointing with our elderly fingers to a multitude of caricatures - forms constantly changing to match our resonance. Our frequencies. But isn't that just it?
It's as if they're only there to acquire us. Existing not as true beings but like pseudo-opaque, two-dimensional paint stains barring us from the light. Yet we acknowledge them anyways, even going so far as to identify them with things of the past. Phantoms on center stage, acting out in an invisible play.
On the outside, like scientists prodding over a microscope, like therapists peering through a padded cell window, we look bacterial - we look crazy. Acknowledging the non-existent on the hillside. On the hillside, we are normal and everyone on the outside is crazy.
We are the scientists, psychologists, and leaders of the occult. We are normal. We are conspirators, presidents, and Gods. We are normal. We are children, we are adults, we are everything in between. We are normal.
On the hillside, we look at vapors and laugh at their resemblance, even though it's a trick of the mind. Nobody will ever see their True Form, not even those who already know. Questions rush to mind... if they simply exist as frequency matchups, do they exist at all? What does that say about us?
We are... normal.
Kale Beaudry
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-the-hillside/
