This life, these broken dreams, and those fake memories.

It’s nearly impossible to speak every confession we feel on a daily basis, even with all these machines asking us everyday to make an objection. All these networking sites poking and grabbing at us as if we’re all celebrities just lookin’ for some attention when really it’s all about the affection. It’s like infection posing as a gravitational pull to lead us to one another, a simple, quite lull so we can start a connection and kick it off with an erection. We are so full of complexion, introspection, and recollection just aiming at a projection of something close to perfection so that we can join in a change of direction that we sometimes forget to take part in a reflection of all the things along the way. We deem the strings wrapped around the tacks on the map collection as some kind of defection or disconnection. As if each intersection wasn’t a clue about our journey or a historic fact for our mental rejection. As if we’re all afraid we don’t have enough circumspection, and feel the detection of protection lacking. When Kanye is famous for an interruption and Jon and Kate for a family corruption. How are we to still follow instruction? Where is the gravitational pull when we can longer function? Who will we be after an hour of detention or a year in a mental institution? If Obama didn’t have the right to an election and judges the right to ejection, our world would no longer be the same stamp collection if this pull was just a mislead intervention. We need a better suggestion to cause a suppression of all things horrible in the act of digestion. This is my contention of aggression to sustain something beyond conception.