Unstable ((Short Prose))

Utopian Puzzle Piece
I am knocking on a door to another dimension.  I am speaking to the Spirit Beings who dine on inadequate flesh and fear energy, on the materialistic aspect of the World and all its lower dimensional kinfolk.  I am knocking at your door – don’t deny my abundance.

As of now, I am unfamiliar with your tactics; however, I would like to decipher its ferocious peaks and echelons, its sharp horned heads and enormous wingspan, its misshapen mouths and buttocks; I would like to decipher those things and more in totality.  They are neither good nor bad in my reality.  I am knocking – don’t deny my abundance.

I wish to understand a stronger sense of self-worth, and peek inside the insatiable need to kick the well being of other brothers to the unfeeling portion of intelligence.  Perhaps I can find a balance between the emotional and the poker faced.  Perhaps I can finally know the true meaning of nirvana.  Perhaps I will find my Utopian puzzle piece.  I am knocking…

© 2017 Amina Caprice Andolini

The Invisible Tribe
this is for the Beings who desire nothing in particular: I vibe with your frame of mind.  It is as if we’re an invisible tribe – congregating at our designated grid points, conversing over fruity tea, sandwiches and little cakes.

© 2017 Amina Caprice Andolini


😠 The “Nobody Cares” Rant 😠

Soul Searching – Writing is a Lifestyle
Some of the ‘information for amateurs’ keeps a novice writer in an amateur’s mindset.  People would rather not have novice writers blossoming or a bunch of mature minded creative people in general running around for several reasons…

Some of the people in the business of selling an artist’s material are not investing in the artist.  They are investing in the artist’s profitability.  In order to be profitable, the collective mindset is to imitate and/or reproduce something of significance; to give “old material” a face lift.  All they wanna do is clone profits.  Nobody really cares about an artist’s emotional trails or their hardships.  Nobody cares about what an artist goes through in order to be creative.  Nobody cares about how an artist makes the material, just as long as he or she makes the material.  In more extreme cases, nobody even cares if the stuff is good or not.  Just as long as it sells.

According to several, nobody really cares about a writer’s feelings.  The only thing the World cares about is the next great novel, the next great movie, the next great song, painting, so and so.  With all of the cloning and dumbing down going around, now, the only thing the majority of the World wants is the next decent creation – something that snakes around the Rules of Conformity or plays into them.

It’s about suppression

Those at the very top would rather not have a bunch of creative minds blooming.  Who wants a bunch of mature minded nonconformists running around?  Nah… They can’t control that stuff, right.  For this slave society to continue like it is, they have to control as many minds as they can, so out comes good old rules and regulations.  Out comes the jumping through hurdle after hurdle, to slipping and sliding through gobs of red tape and dumb regulations.  The way I currently see it, poverty is a collective punishment for not being talent enough, not being smart enough, or for simply ‘not conforming.’  It doesn’t matter if an artist has genuine talent or not.  ‘Not being talent enough’ only means that one is not able to navigate the World’s many demands for one reason or another.  ‘Not being smart enough’ has little to do with what you actually know.  It is essentially about conforming – how well you conform to the World’s wishes and demands.

Everything’s a Game.  In the Writing Game, the inability to conform is amateurishness.


Addictive Cake

A jaded ghost lurks inside the corridors of my journal.
Shall I feed it addictive cake and meet its needs with gullibility?  No.  I am much too late for that nonsense.  Its jaded royalty has been feeding off the emptiness in my Soul ever since childhood.  The physical ailments I experience are byproducts of this emptiness.  In ignorance, I continue to feed it addictive cake.  I cannot meet its desiccated needs with innocence, because my ignorance is what it survives on – it survives on my ignorance and addictive cake in excess.  Ignorance is no excuse in this matter.  My ignorance gives rise to the matter, to the jaded ghost who lurks inside the corridors of my journal.  What artlessness rides alongside it in the night’s wind?