when the 'I' became depictional

we are constantly indoctrinated 

to be intake experience junkies,

with conveyer belts of sensory input,

as critical-mind observers of comparative truth.

awake is a form of on-the-job.

mastery has no reward, 

but next-ness is ever approaching.

sensory is the major supplier

of quantification's needs.

conclusions are of a mandate status.

the reality maze is ever onward.

whatever the prop status of the physical world,

play continues without pause or interruption.

if it can be conceived, 

it can come to be believed.

language is ever the barker,

where every moment is a decision bidding war.

we are all sellers and buyers,

assuming ownership of or on the planet,

was ever other than virtually real.

auctions become swap-meets becoming looting.

it's all value through a car wash of perception.

someone would eventually have to ask,

of course, without ever asking.

okay, everyone would eventually ask,

say before their death.

what is/was the point of all of this?

yes, it is an internally asked question.

some just once in a lifetime. 

others, philosophically looking back,

a few almost daily.

still fewer, in complete wonderment, 

almost lip pressing daily,

as if a form of silent assigned punctuation 

to every possible remark outwardly made.

what is the point?

as if that is a state-able philosophy of intention

and not a retort of what living resembles.

okay, we went with experience

and what did we get?

mandatory jobs as permanent watchers.

critics of incessancy forever on display.

where needs and wants meet as outcomes

is philosophical as an incessancy or a consequence.

and we are not asking time, 

as if time will ever tell.

everyone is privately after

the heat-seeking of inner experience.

it has other names,

like, love, friendship, compassion, empathy.

but once labeled, 

and we are off to external applications.

not sure if ask has any potential to resolve.

there must be a deeper witness to experience

than to re-experienced experience.

damned to make that real.

but then, when did real become of itself?

and of course, had to ask.

who is the inner driver of that?

hey, as long as I am a self,

quandary, is the game-board of consciousness.

and play is not the joy of being.

but more so, 

am I, as a player,

winning or loosing? . . .