Stockholm Syndrome is a condition in which hostages develop a psychological alliance with their captors during captivity. Emotional bonds may be formed, between captor and captives, during intimate time together, but these are generally considered irrational in light of the danger or risk endured by the victims.
In light of Sweden’s resistant policy against lockdown, it dawned on me that irony wins again.
It’s not that there is one or even two ways of handling this situation, its not just team A or team B, its a wide variety of insane hubris that surrounds each and every existentional crisis that forces us to review, revamp, reinvent ourselves, our processes and our allegiances.
Under constant bombardment of skewed truths and vested interests and hopeful disillusionment. The unrelenting obscurantism, objectification and ostracizing of irrelivent trifle dribble makes expressionism the new norm.
Prolific poo makes brown the new Midas’s touch,
just taken a touch over top with a heavy handed huss.
Its not the intensity, not contrast, not the digitized compression that’s broadcast.
Its just the hue, the way we see, how the light shines, against those background frees.
Like a photon, like a sponge, your free to express yourself, not wear a glove.
If you touch it you bought it, your not putting it back.
Just like my words, that may stick in your rack.
You think your free, who do you kid?
Your juxting yourself, while others give bid.
Who’s telling you not to go out?
Are they loving and caring, or are they giving you gout.
The same ones you vote for, they’re vying again.
To not disappoint but to ride the ridge of reign.
Its the bitter pill, the longer road,
the tough lived life while living on a dime.
Obscure connections, frugal expectations,
whole hearted well wishing, humble devotions.
So I emplore, all and sundry,
to pickup their voices, and vocalise honey.
sweeten the life, sour whats rife.
Poetic times, poetic licence.