Monday, August 25, 2008

Love again.

To find this dream of mine,
Is to find the crystal clear waters of eternity
Wrapped in some forgotten tapestry
To which mine eyes can only see.

This is not but to the morrow that one can sense it
That one can feel the end of all things,
Lost in the desires that make poets weep,
Is the truth that can finally release these bounds of hell to heaven.

Take such a swim in this unrelenting memory
To beg of time to be in such replay
Do over those things that pain us so
I'd rather to be forgotten than to be remembered in such a way.

You cannot put your sweet head on my arm,
For to sting your mind so is to torture your soul
Such is relapse in some scene of swift tragedy,
Is such a delay of the sun from peeking beyond its horizon.

Formidable is the dew that settled on the hard ground this night,
Yet none compares to the light of Apollo's love
Hold such light until it burst forth from all of you,
And do not let the darkness find your heart.

Do take my arm in yours, do feel my form before it dies,
Do hold the clouds before your eyes the brief time they are there,
Find that which is the love that you yourself have asked for,
And find you may never need ask again.

Saturday, August 16, 2008

The Beast Within

From the internal arises a heat, and from the throes of such heat comes the animal within. Such violent primitive emotions do come from the essence of man without spirit, the meaningless set of values without value, the loss of Being in humanity. Yet come they do, and in the absence of Spirit to subdue the animal within, man simply reverts to the lesser of his self.

In my experience it appears at times as if man can only act in the absence of spirit. Such violent sense of nothingness can be met with much of the same or act in a much different sense of self. Violence is the lesser form of man, a Beast, but it would seem a form sometimes that is unable to hide itself. Such form is the dichotomy of man, turning the industrious willer of good into a destructive force of nature.

In such a thing the Lone Wolf has indulged. In his life he has resolved to pacificism, then violence, and now to the mixture of the two that survives him today. The Beast has shown itself on more than one occasion, surely leaving its mark of lust and misery. Creation had given the Wolf the talents of the beast along with the talents of a peacemaker, and to such ends both had shared success and failure. At times the Wolf, feeling gray in his years, longed for the tinge of control the Beast allowed, but left such thirst to the gods of time passed and challenge wasted. The scars of the Beast remained on his body, while the glimmer of Spirit remained in his eyes. It was such spirit that seemed determined to keep the Beast in slumber, as to not to allow its return regardless of the heat of the day. Today's heat presents such a challenge.

It seemed to the Lone Wolf that all things must remain as they are despite the idiocy of the world around him. Others in their packs stayed true to the lies of the pack, and dismal paradox of behavior not understandable. They would invent such provocation in others to warrant the attack, while preaching preach and love. To the Lone Wolf is was quite apparent they had lost their way, that they were so blinded by the value they had in the pack that they could not see they were leading it to disaster. It seemed obvious that others were working in sincere diligence to destroy the thing they claimed to love the most, so much so that it also seemed obvious that they hated that which they said they loved. Why else would they be so determined to destroy it? Warfare had never "created" anything, and the endless attacks on the packs around them seemed to create the exact opposite of what they were intended to create. Pack leaders, often left remote by poor leadership and bad decisions, quickly undertook such attacks to keep unity in the ranks. When the lead dogs made the wrong turn and water become scarce, and attack on others materialized, and the attack and the "threat" it was designed to end became the focus, not the mistakes that led to the thirst.

Sad state, these affairs, and as the snow turned red with the blood of hatred and blindness. The Lone Wolf marveled at how much he could see without the blindness of the Beast, he could clearly see the anger others could muster in those who followed without question, he could clearly see the threat that such blind allegiance could create. Patriotism, once the foundation of the pack that ensured its survival, seemed to be the thing that ensured its demise. He with no allegiance could easily see such folly, with no leader to subscribe one could easily see the failures of such subscription. No, the independence of his individual self, the strength that all that is provided his Spirit was enough to get him through the toughest of days. He needed no pack, he needed no leader, he needed to die for no thing or no one save those the voice of his Spirit directed.

That was not to say the Lone Wolf did not love. He loved often and freely, without prejudice and without bias. Still, he knew when to keep his distance, although his love did not. He could love those he would fight, he could love those he did not agree with. Such was the freedom he could enjoy in the unattachment his life had provided. He need not hate any thing or any one, he need not care what they thought despite his pleadings that seemed to be saying the contrary. He could bare his teeth as if to hate but out of love, for the hoping the sight would end the foray before it began. When it did not, he did not hate his adversary, but rather felt sorry for their mistake, that if just to leave him alone would be quite enough.

It seemed amazing that there were others who just could not leave him alone. They needed him to think like them, to assimilate into the pack. He could only surmise that they feared his independence. It was true that the leadership did, for a pack without the need for leaders had no need for them. They, the leaders, were weak without they, the followers. They were nothings, the leaders, without those on whose fear they could prey. If the followers only saw the strength in such independence, the leaders would become nothings. For their part, the pack feared his independence, for there was some comfort in knowing that the sum of the whole was the whole of the some. If they all were alike, in thought, action, need and desire, there would be no need for fear, no need for greater security.

In this, the battles they waged were not about threat of others, but the threat of others to the selfs that the pack had created. Those others did not think like them, smell like them, or howl at the same moon so they had to be a threat. They needed to assimilate or risk the pack's security. After all, there is no greater loss of security to the pack then the loss of dependence, whether leader on the follower or the follower on the leader. Dependence is security, and the thought of independence raiding such security was insecurity into itself.

It was all so eerily apparent to the Lone Wolf the day he found his independence. He sought higher mountains, thicker forests, clearer streams and air so pure it cleared is mind of thought with each breath. He sought to roam where his Spirit took him, not where some drone deigned it proper for him to go. He raised his head to the Moon, and howled a yell that told the world around him, every creature that he was free, and that he was alive.

The Branch

I guess we all wake from our dreams sooner or later.

To some, the awakening results in the understanding that they just are not equipped to make others truly happy in life. They cannot forgo what drives their mind to work, to awaken, in the sake of some semblance of selflessness when that mind drives them to selfishness. To those imprisoned few, it seems obvious that others cannot see the branch they have whittled away for those others can only focus on the twig still being held onto. Forget the branch dropped in selflessness, it is unseen and unacknowledged, for that twig seems to hold much more weight in the eyes of those who need not carry it.

In that way, others cannot see the changes made within such a mind, where they want to be selfless but perhaps not in the way others need them to be. It is difficult for those who so desperately clung to the branch to let go of the twig, for that branch was everything to them - their survival, their selves, the only thing never allowed to see the light of day now awoken and as strong as ever. The others cannot see you chipping away at that branch, slowly ridding the mind of the weight of it all. They can only see the empty soul they wish you had, rather than the great reduction of weight you have worked so hard to offer. The Wolf but wags his tail at the sight of such masters, proud of the whittling away he has done. The Master removes such pride in the reminding that there is so much more wood to go.

But then you awake. You awake to the fact that perhaps the reason the others no longer see the effort is because they don't care to. There is no love, no understanding, just a cold hearted reality that says "you shall conform or be cast away". They don't see you as the laborer working to cast away the branch, they see you as the labor. They are tired, they are angry, and they could care less about what blisters your hands employ in such work, they only care about having it in the time and manner they see fit.

True enough, their vision is fair, the sweat the brow has spent yesterday does not mean it anything but dry today. They, the "loved" ones, are there with you, becoming wet with the perspiration you offer as your go about your work. They share the blisters, blisters not theirs to have, yet they share them nonetheless. They simply tire of the work, care little for the results of the labor, just as they begin to care little for the laborer.

Such is the effort, symbolic removal of rings,
The ties that hold us true, the ties that bind,
For out of such action the Beast proudly sings,
"It was all in the mind, all in the mind."

There comes a time when the laborer decides to bear the burden on his own. No, it is not fair for those loved ones to share in the passion of such work that the mind dare fight, and it is not fair for the laborer to bear the brunt of effort not just of the job at hand, but also of curing those who share in the work. At some point, the man must rise above himself, alone and of good will, to better himself through suffering and the anguish of effort. He must turn what he recognizes as in need of repair into repair, not just recognition. At some point he must simply walk away from the crew to aspire to such greatness.

He is therefore resigned, he feels, needing to lose that which he cherishes the most not to hurt them, but to save them. He is nothing in their eyes, part of the Creation of his mind, yet created nonetheless. He simply is not good enough to be in their employ in any aspect of work, for he has not succeeded even in the crafting of the twig he now holds. Perhaps he needs to walk and not return until the twig is left floating in some deep and angry river, gone forever. Perhaps, at this point, the removal of both the twig and the branch is pointless as it is in his world, for they have but left him in the Angry River a while ago. He is irrelevant to their cause, and as so is irrelevant in his own for his cause was so closely tied to theirs. He simply must not walk in a path made for 5, he must find the path made for none.

So there he sits, alone but holding his twig. The realization that the calls for him were not made in need for him at all sets in like a stone on the soul. He sees the world clearly as the Lone Wolf of yesterday stirs within, he is not needed, not wanted, not seen as a way to love but an impediment to it. They will not disagree, they will not argue such a point left true, and if they did he would hear none of it. No, those who demanded the work will just forget he existed, and as the cold wind sets in they will not dare think of his plight. They will bask in their warmth, in the glow of the fire, thankful that the chill will not dare touch them this night. They will smile, they will laugh, they will love without one careless thought of he who tried but failed. If they hear of his demise they will but believe it was his own fault, for he could not whittle fast enough to be one of them. He did not conform fast enough, he did not see his work as necessary enough, he did not but see the burden of life pulling the sled in the honor of those riding in it. It is true enough that the riders cannot fathom the mind of the Dog, cannot see that he just wants to arrive and considers each step as his destination. He cannot be here and there at the same time, he must be here first, either with those who care enough to go along for the ride or without them, but he will be here all the same.

The questions remains as such forks in the road, which direction should be taken. Either way he will walk, but the path either narrows for none or widens for all. Perhaps the choice should not be made by others, those who see the walk as way too strenuous for their own legs to bear. Perhaps it is time to say "I shall go on without you, just wait for soon there will be another sled for you to ride." Such a sled must surely be much more comfortable than the one he can provide, one that means you need not walk at all. Such happiness is what is deserved, what is desired by him of those who were so worth the effort in the first place.

Perhaps in the lonely walk he must endure such suffering so that he may find his self. Perhaps it is too late for the others he holds on to with so much love in his heart but so little understanding in his mind. Perhaps he will find such love in the self, such love that others can share but that he need not cling to. Perhaps such a treat will be found in the loss of the branch he once clung to so proudly and in its place lies the knowledge that it need not be there at all. Perhaps his riders will enjoy his company for his company, not the company they thought he should offer, company that he could not provide at that moment. Perhaps they will not require a ride at all, but just ask him to sit in his own way in front of the fire to share in its warmth not on their terms, but just in the way things are.

To such an end one can only the stirrings of slumber's end wreaks havoc on such memory.

Monday, August 11, 2008

The Apology of the Masses

I read recently where the Episcopal Church has issued an apology for its "involvement in the slave trade." This has caused a reaction of many types across our land, so much so that I gave some thought to the issue and how we handle it as a nation.

For more information, visit Episcopal Church to apologize for slavery -

One of the most defiant challenges to such an act has come from some on the "conservative" side, offering that we were not alive during slavery nor are any slaves alive and therefore do not owe anyone an apology. It is not difficult to see their point, there are no slaves currently alive in the literal sense of the word in the United States, nor are there any slave holders still living in the literal sense of the word. Therefore, who owes who what?

What isn't being seen is that such an apology is not personal, it does not come bleeding from your heart onto our collective Main Street. What it does is address a very dark time in our history, possibly one of our darkest periods in the human cause, in a way that should be constructive for all involved. Our collective bodies apologize to a collective group of people still haunted by the institution of slavery, and along with that sincere gesture of regret comes a promise that we will not stand by and allow it to happen again.

I also read discussions that mention that slavery is "in our past", and should be left there. True enough, slavery is in our past, but it is also true that the remnants of slavery still exist in the consciousness of some Americans - on both sides. In a society that often dwells on its past, whether it be honoring our war veterans on Memorial Day (a day named in the practice of remembering the past), or on honoring some of our best leaders with special days, Americans tend to dwell on history. American History is taught in our schools, and in those lessons we are taught such things as the the Declaration of Independence, where it clearly states that "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness." So yes, we as a collective certainly identify with the glorious triumphs of World War II, the resiliency of Valley Forge, and the bravery of Normandy; so should identify with the darker sides of our history. Just as will memorialize our greatness, we should seek redemption in our failures. Just as we learn from our moments of glory, we should learn from our moments of inhumanity. And just as we offer thanks to those who made us great, we should offer condolences to those who suffered under our flawed character.

Similarly, just as we do not pay a stipend to those whose ancestors died and stood steadfast on Bunker Hill, we do not offer reparations to those whose ancestors died and stood helpless under the whip of American ignorance. Yet we do not hide our head in shame because of such actions, for both the payment and the shame attest to a complicity not ours to endure. Rather, we simply say we are sorry, and vow to all who grace our land with their existence, that we will live and die to ensure their security under such a premise:

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness."

It shall surely be in the present that we find such greatness, not in the past, nor in the future. It is how we hold to such ideal now that make us who and what we are. Those words should guide our collective actions, and hide our individual bias. Those words are the Testament to the American soul, the sentence that states clearly the cause of American greatness. It was not a single person who made us great, nor was it a single political party, or a single ideology, it was the equality we gave to all, the rights we saw as not ours to give or interfere with. It was not the description of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness that made us who we were, but the allowance of the individual to create and explore his own definition.

We were great because we just allowed greatness to happen. To lose such a thing is to lose who we are, and to lose who we are is simply to no longer be great.

Sunday, August 10, 2008

Truth - One

It does seem that in the current of human events that one often loses sight of the truth for need of correctness. Do we entangle our selves so strongly to the subject of thought that we cannot reach for the ideals of truth?

It would seem as if we have lost our way in the myriad of conquests offered to be right, not honest. To such endeavors we persecute the greatest aspect of our Being, the way to Truth, the part of us that seeks not praise or profit for just Being "true". To share such a breeze of honesty onto the fires of our lives may see the embers burning brighter, blazing a scene of righteousness into the tapestry of our souls. Be such honesty, hold that which is true close to your heart, and offer that which is found there to all who surround you.

Study the things you now value, seek in them that which shall cause suffering and weed them out like ivy in a pumpkin patch. Learn about your self, in that there can be no greater truth, and in the study do not leave a single page unturned. Strive in isolation to know that same self, to seek in it the sturdiness of the individual, the calmness of Being, the wisdom of the ages. Be strong, be brave and be wise my friend, and in this you shall find the end of suffering, the extinction of need, and the foundation for which life itself was created on.

Saturday, August 9, 2008

As the end comes.

Today we learned of the death of a loved one who lived far away but was not far from out hearts. True, she had lived a relatively long life, and left as as another example to what ends habits like smoking will cause, but still the faint tinge of pain reaps at my soul at the thought of her passing. One must reach out to her husband, a decades-old meeting of two minds and spirits, for no deeper pain can be felt at the knowledge that you shall never again touch the hand of the one you love (in this existence anyway). One must seek out those who pain greatly at such loss, for death does not effect the dead as much as it effects the living.

But such lessons can be learned by the living, those of us who can take such moments for granted and waste them with the pitiful arguments spawned not of love but of the folly of fools. What moments did those two waste with irrelevant spawnings of the temporary suffering self-inflicted by anger, jealousy, or other emotions known to ego? What would they give to have those moments back to share in the love they felt at their final moments of passing?

I am sure the price would be high, just as I am sure they would pay it.

So do us living fools dare take this lesson to heart that shed our selves prone to such waste? Most likely not, as we feel the need to live in such disharmony from time to time. Storms, it can be said, are necessary to clear the air, to wet ground left fertile but dry, to unseal such a surface hardened with time. After such storms, life can spring anew, time can be restarted with the crisp and tortured sound of Thor's hammer as it springs to life even the most deaf of souls. Nothing, it is said, can dare sleep during such storms.

It would seem to be in our best interest to seek the limit to these storms, for as some things may benefit from their birth, they surely can leave destruction in their wake. The floods of pain and agony can leave many a soul buried under mud so deep that only darkness can survive. The winds of suffering can howl greatly in the ears of the passionate, causing the heartiest among us to snap and splinter in the midst of it all. Yes, some may see life anew once the storm clouds clear, but others may see destruction so great as to never recover.

As the end comes, and we are drawing our last breaths, it seems implausible to believe we will see value in the storms. Nay, we will cling ever so desperately to the last vestiges of sunshine and wish the storm clouds away. We will bargain for the time wasted seeking shelter in the storm, and we will beg for the second chance to live in such harmony as to never need those clouds. We will grasp for the ones we love, pray for those we cannot reach, hope that they remember not the storm but the blue skies. We will wish the storms away, and we will have wasted time better spent in love than in anger.

Remember then dear souls, that when you wish away your love in favor of the darkening clouds above, that this may be your most brutal mistake. It shall not be your last wish, but it will be the wish you cannot change at any price, yet the one you will most desperately seek to change. Touch the one you love this moment, and never let go of the sunshine. Speak but true words of love to those you cherish, never let them forgo the chance to hear such promises. Allow your heart to open, and reach out to those who share so much with you in the time you have this moment.

This moment - it is all you are sure to have, it is all you will ever know. Be true to it in love with those who seek it in return and share it with those who do not know they seek such truth. You shall never regret that moment when the chance of rain is replaced by the surety of the sun.

Friday, August 8, 2008

I have all I need now...

Such a gorgeous day, and to share it with family on a lovely beach is simply precious. Such a collection of moments shall not be forgotten, and may truly serve as a standard of all such days to come (assuming, of course, that they shall).

To lay on such sand, one can be transported into oneself quite easily. Soft, supple earth pads the body along and allows such root to Creation as to not find evidence to deny it. The mind becomes still, tempered only by the soft ocean breeze, the warm sun, and the sounds of waves crashing innocently into Earth. One can feel such beauty as to not have a need to feel any other, as each moment becomes frozen into the other, still as all activity blurs into the calmness of this moment.

The sounds of the children laughing does not distract from this beauty, but only adds to it. To hear such delight in the voices of those you love can well emotion in even the sturdiest of men. The joy of others can only delight the still soul, as joy radiates around and adds warmth to the already heated air. To feel them experiencing such joy, to notice them seeing things they have never seen before, and to understand them as they feel the utter perfection of this moment is to see the crisp reality of what love can do. Love supplies such joy; the love of Creation offered to each of us, the love we have for such Creation, and the love we can share with each other is what living is all about. This moment assures me of the correctness of this path.

To seek any other would ruin this what I have already been given.

I open my eyes to be elated at the sight I see. Perhaps our loves are like water to us all. We can certainly go thirsty for a few moments, but ultimately shall suffer and perish if not satisfied. It may be true that we need not be attached to others, but it may also be true that in Being we are tied to another as surely as life is to water. The sight I see is my Water, laying motionless in the sun she loves so much, basking in the warmth as surely as in my mind. God, what gift of beauty thou hath given me! My wife, my partner, my teacher and my love completes the scene of perfection in a moment so real it can never be replaced. Like a movie stuck on a scene, this picture of beauty is burned into my Being as surely as my breath supplies It with life.

In essence, if I were to leave this existence at this moment, I would leave it in paradise. I worry not about what this journey may bring me tomorrow, for I have all I need now.

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

Walking I will be...

If I beat a dog that bit me 5 years ago each day because of the scar, who is to blame if he bites me again?

I wonder in such matters what is worse, the crime or the punishment? Does the present effect do anything to end the cause? To say that one acts in a way to suffer another from a past error, does the suffering of the present then cause an allowable mistake in the future?

See, one cannot claim that insanity of today caused by insanity of yesterday cannot have any effect on the psyche of tomorrow. To do so would be a high form of hypocrisy, in which the tormented turned tormentor can only expect to become the tormented again. If such a vicious cycle is not interrupted by some understanding of the present, the past has no choice but to become the future, the present has no choice put to live in the past, and the future has no hope of defining itself. We are stuck then in such a cycle, one of misunderstanding completed by misunderstanding, until all semblance of understanding is loss in the abyss. As deep as that pit shall go one will never touch bottom and will cease to find forgiveness in the darkness that has been created by one's self.

It is nothing but truth that we are only in control of ourselves for this moment. Those who seek to rely on the past for today are destined to have that past repeated over and over again until the present ceases to exist unto itself. Today we have no present it seems, for we relive nothing but the past and identify so clearly with its pain that we choose to not let go lest we lose our identity. I choose to not blame others anymore for my actions, for I cannot be resolved in my complicity and cannot lean on the rock of blame anymore. Regardless of the pain instilled in my heart only I can choose to let that pain rule me instead of me it. I can no longer say "I am this way", or "I am that way" because of another, I can only live in my present as one in complete control of it.

Take it or leave it, but I choose not to live in the past anymore. You can choose to live in this present with me as you are, or you can remain as you were, but I will not dive into that pit again. I am beginning to love the growth I feel each day, and do hereby choose to not be dragged down by the love you have of the past. If you expect perfection, be prepared by such disappointment. Imagine if the same expectation had been placed on your back to carry unfairly in the heat of the day.

Yes - love is what you have of it. One does not taste the bitter and be repulsed by it only to taste it over and over again. Such blame you may place on my head as a crown of thorns, but please note that I choose not to wear it. I will shrug off such suggestions as clearly as I shrug off a drop of rain that by some chance has found its way on my back; it will be forgotten almost as quickly as it was felt.

I just do not wish to live in that day anymore or at anytime. It is beyond me and me it, never to be relived again except by those who choose to hold on. Blame me if you like, but the fault of such a grip now lies solely on your hand. I can be walking with you or without you, that is your choice, but walking I will be.

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

What is better than the dawn?

I awoke after a restless night, my head pounding as if there were a million feet dancing from within. The sun was aglow having already risen to the brand new day and I had but no chance to welcome it. It was rare that I had not at least seen the break of dawn, either through a window or in person, and had not the opportunity to relish in the crisp silence of a morning pause. Today was different, it had beaten me to the wake, and crisply reminded me that in being human I am so much the lesser to the perfection of nature.

Yet through this morning's silent scourge I had but to turn my head to see its cure. There she lie, silently in her morning frown, yet the more beautiful then when my eyes shut last. She is admittedly not a "morning person", yet to me she is the very sight of beauty as she sleeps each morn. Such peace of the natural beauty that emanates from her can only be seen in the innocence of sleep. No worries to pinch her eyebrows, no children to harry her, no husband to aggravate her, she is the essence of beauty, the calmness of peace, the hope I feel each morning as I give thanks to see this dawn once again.

Parting from her is difficult although the bed is not my friend in the morning. Today is different, as the pain in my head beckons me back to the sheets. Yet I still rise, for the day's pressing adventures must unfold as they are intended. I cannot help but to look once more at the woman who so much gives of herself. I pause to guess at what her day will be like, probably somewhat typical in the challenges of raise children, keeping house, and dealing with the day's adventures and misadventures. Typical I say, knowing quite well that there is nothing typical about them except in the challenges themselves. I tend to play them off in her presence, yet I admire her honestly and truthfully for how she handles them with such grace that makes me question my own strength. I certainly do not have her fortitude.

I fight the urge to caress her; I dare not disturb this placid pond. Somehow it is moments like this that one can forget his own sufferings. Often when welcoming the morning in its stillness I ask myself "What is better than the dawn." Well, today I have my answer, for the dawn but promises a day anew, the beauty that lies in bed next to me promises that day has hope, love, and purpose. Those gifts are few, but they are offered each day we awake and take the time to feel the love in the peaceful stillness of the morning, to see that which the light of the dawn does show, and wait to feel a loving hand grace our own with the tenderness such love can provide.

Surely without her the dawn would come each day. Surely without her the birds would sing aloud, the bunnies would bask in the warmth of the sun, and the mountain streams would sparkle such light in return. Yet to me it is clear that without her the light would not have the same purpose that it does this morning. Today, the sun but warms my skin, while she warms my Being, my soul, and my heart completely. Today, the sun but promises a new day, she fills that day with promise. To this end she is my answer to "What is better than the dawn?"

This day will surely end, and that light will fade away,
And while it's days that fills our lives, it's love that fills our day.

Monday, August 4, 2008

Simple It Is

Just another day in the paradox of life, left swirling around in dismay between night and day, and the time spent wondering if any second away from living was worth it at all. Sometimes one can feel as if life has him on a treadmill, just running in place and the harder he pushes the more he realizes that he just will go nowhere until he stops running. Hell, even if in the stopping he gets thrown back a few feet, at least it is movement in some direction.

To serve so many masters in one day...absurd in the undertaking and fruitless in the effort. One cannot fathom the solitude of a day like this, the absolute insanity of it all. Striving to succeed where there appears to be no success in the offing, working to seek balance on a poorly balanced fulcrum, realizing that there are not enough hours in this day and not enough sympathetic ears to hear your plight. In such solitude one finds himself, either in joyful adoration of the moments he spends following his passion, or in quiet desperation of realizing that he simply is not.

To have the vision of passion stolen from you in a moment's serene passing, barely noticeable to the thief yet oddly painful to the victim, one can forget to scream so silently as to not let the thief steal even that moment of emotion. To be so true to oneself as to let the thief feel the brunt of the loss, to steal back just one iota of respect from those so quick to take it from you is but a second pleasure to the realization that what was taken from you was never yours to begin with. In the lesson you hope to reduce the strain, and somehow the effort is but strain itself.

To those who would attest some ownership over me, take heed you own nothing, as I am all of nothing. To those who would insanely lay claim to a soul completely lost yet searching for a way to be found, be still in the moment you realize you have but grasped at air. To those who would shun me as a bastard stepchild, be cautioned that I may be shunned but I will not shun, for love is not given to be received, but given to be given. Take time, understand your complexities, and be so simple as to reach out with an outstretched hand. You will not be empty, you will not be forlorn, your will be loved in the simplicity for which love is.

And simple it is.

All things allowed in their simplicity are the best of things. All efforts made in their most simple form are worthwhile. All times drawn down to their most simple of moments are beautiful in themselves. It is not about solving the complexities of life, it is about transforming such complexities to their simplest forms. In those moments of simplicity, one can find purpose, light, and love. Love is simple, love never is complex, it is the basics of life and the mystery of all that is. To be in love is to find the purity of simplicity. To feel such tinge of hatred burn at one's heart is to cloud life with complexity; such difficulties can be remedied with the slightest touch of a lover's hand, the soft kiss of your other, the sweet embrace of your child. It is simple, it is beautiful and it is glorious.

Sunday, August 3, 2008

Sunday, 3 August - A tale of folly

The night last was filled with venom, frustration at those little minds which tend to impact with their smallness. Struggle as I might to reduce their effect, there it was, the replay of the mind's noise stuck on a constant loop of ignorance. It makes you question the veracity of your purpose in such employ, when you can readily see the effects of their stupidity and ignorance in such light as to be blinded by their simplicity.

It is so true that even reasonable men can be filled with such ego as to not put their best foot forward if it should enhance others whose feet may seem better suited for the task. The realities are much more difficult than their fantasies would entail, a meanness of no purpose stuck in the afterthought of idiocy. You can see the glow of the discovery of failure in their eyes long before they can, you implore their discretion as a better part of valor, but to no avail as the monster of greed and ego surrounds their thoughts in supreme imperfection.

One would easily dispel such idiocy if only it didn't impact and cause the imminent suffering of many at the whims of the few. So today I resolve to stand idly by and watch the imminent destruction of a valid cause, of one that I felt such passion and desire. As if the inexperienced were to be a Roman Minerva and I her owl, the simple minded fool would believe it so, yet again I stand to watch the flood of failure rush and await the sounds to see who the fool can assign blame. The owl shall truly find a home, but not in the empty statues of her court, whose absence of experience can only be surmounted by the overabundance of wasted thought, such shallow statues are sure to be as hollow as the dust that made them.

So, peace begone, I shall walk this path in the intensity for which it deserves. No forward watching angel shall there be, no wistful lines of scouts to portray a dismal end. I shall succeed despite the failings of others, and in that shall my purpose be. Such a raging flood of failure shall not impede me in my quest, such sadness in the lies told by foolish lips shall not purge me from my course. You, kind sir, may see a fool across the way, but be comforted in the fact that I shall not call you on your foolishness, shall not rail against you in your misconceptions, but shall wait patiently for the end to fall where it may. You may think yourself Goliath to my David; patience shall be my stone and persistence my sling. You shall not hear the thud or taste the dirt, you shall only know it is I who stung you.