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If it could speak, let it be roundly dumb. The need for silence overwhelms the hubbub so many love as a mistress without a face. It could capture anyone who is fond of losing themselves in something that few lose themselves within. It is the triumph of that which speaks the softest, walks the quietest and leaves no doubt in any confluence of obstreperous outings on the town being clapped under one's hat. Let it boil in the brain and be cooked for the hogs. Else, it is of little worth. We are in the din of this beautiful silence.
However conflated to the mood set aside for that which cannot be seen in public, we drive our socially pleasing moods to the end of our wits, hoping there might be a release or satisfaction, but there's none. It keeps droning on, as if it has something to say, but it's been said an infinite number of times, and no words now can adequately summarize its intent. Something has been lost that should never be found again. I'm attuned to this dilemma. It lives deep inside me. At a loss for its loss, I work to accept. It is mine.
Tilted off to the end of its construction, being the time sworn formation of a swarm of ideas gelling to a single idea, from the many to one, I found it to be a place I wanted as a place of rest, but I was never gained admittance. This odd landscape provoked a reevaluation of something I hadn't thought about for many years. I felt the angst swell from the center of me. Being rejected was hard. Resentment rose till I faced it away as useless, a waste of energy and time. My lord time keeps me in his grip.
The people came from all over. They had questions. Blank faces met the questions. Their mouths were sealed. No one was willing to answer any of the questions. The people were looked upon with suspicion, derision, skepticism. They had many colors, many tongues. The least of them were strong. You could see it in their eyes. They had come a long way, and they weren't about to be ignored. A paradox was lifted from fear and made reality. The house where they stayed grew larger by the moment. What was real? What was a lie? No one knew. Strange game.
In the middle was a small patch of ground, enough for a few people. Rivers ran around it furiously in all directions. There was no telling where one river began and another ended. The five people standing on the isle looked defeated. They didn't speak to one another. They looked out, but their eyes were unfocused. They were waiting. They all held a question in silence. At the appropriate time the question would be asked. There would come a change. They all knew this change would defeat the present and define the future. It depended upon faith, the lost belief.
Certainly it would be good. When the time came it would bring a good thing, a good change. They held this to be true. Very little else was held. All had been given up by decree. They had to let it go. This is what the words demanded of them. In a circle they stood to hear the sacred words. There was only silence. They had themselves, and some of them felt this was enough; it wasn't. Something else was required. Soon, they would all know the truth. The idea of freedom was a flimsy dream. Something else was coming.
One's life is the extent by which its enterprise shows it's alive. The showing defies the momentum against its issue, the seed of life before life. How one exalts the fashion being place high for all to revere. Let it never be said that dying is not the way of living; each relies upon the other in an endless cycle. Since one cannot afford to be placed above anything but themselves, it is important to realize how the trajectory of life is manifesting. Otherwise, one is at the mercy of that which should've been controlled, the out of the in.
At last one sees the dupe. It takes a long time. The valleys and mountains of the journey vindicate the reasons for the passion, or so the adept believes. No one knows how they will finally see the lie. Perhaps they never will. Perhaps the lie will end up defeating them who believe the lie as the order of things that should never be disobeyed or questioned. It is protected by its own sanctimony, its arrogance. To defeat that takes something special, something that no one can define. It's pushing past a wall erected as that thing to unequivocally revere.
If you look for it, you won't find it. It's waiting somewhere else, always somewhere else. In your mind it seems very clear. It'll be where they said it would be, but that never happens. It possesses a life of its own. Trying to second guess it will only leave you exhausted, fumbling for the exit to someplace reasonable. Why did you create this if you wanted something reasonable? Self contradiction is a disease among artists. You plotted your own downfall. Mary Shelley got it right, but no one pays much attention to here. Perhaps they're rightfully afraid of her.
If fell off. What design was it? Had the eyes focused on their intent to see what's not seen? Are we to be consigned to a redoubtable claim on ourselves that such beliefs are arcane, useless, but not to be considered the offshoot of who we were in the days when we didn't question our core beliefs? This is the crux of a difficult design on our lives that are spiraling out of control, despite our best efforts to create a pliable landscape that might accommodate such blatant confusion. It fell off, and we didn't do a thing to help.
I got the need from the seed that was planted inside me a long time ago. The person responsible faded away. They were probably not even aware of what they'd done. No matter. It's growing inside of me. I can't avert the consequences, much as I would like to manipulate the outcome. I can't. It'll go where it will, regardless. I feel put out, but at the same time I feel elated. I'm off the hook. It took a while. The others who were involved so long ago have disappeared from the world, but not from me. They still live.
They get it out there. They get it done. They show their worth. They show our worth. What we do is what they use. They put us into the story. We are pieces of a large puzzle. It keeps growing. It never stops growing. It never will stop. We are used here and there. They tell us what square to stand on, and we obey. The story demands this of us. They can say whatever they want, and we'll oblige them. They don't know it, but the story will one day have its way with them. I live for that.
In the stands one never sees the action. Oh, one can see the game, sure, but the action before and after the game? No. No one ever sees that. That which opens and closes the game is a privileged thing. This thing has always been there. It always will be there. It masters us. It masters itself. It is. The game is exciting. No matter if the team loses or wins, it's always the same in the end. We've lost the understanding of that. We just see the game. It's easier that way, less painful. Ultimately, though, we'll see it.
I have a little more energy. There's something cooking in the oven. It was placed there on high many years ago. I've come to accept the fleeting patchwork of frayed memories. A puzzle. It pieces me together, bonds me to a messy reflection. I can smell the oven. It hasn't been cleaned in decades. I can only wonder how the dish will taste when it's done. Who will take it out? Will anyone put themselves in that position? I'm waiting. I've always waited. Nothing wrong with waiting, and I keep things clean. When the meal is ready, I'll be there.
Playing around. It is my need, my vocation. I stand in the middle of a battlefield. The stuff of creation and destruction is in the hands of my wit, though I often lose them. The end and the beginning, always and ever the beginning at the end, I'm fond of introducing myself each day; they parade in mutable masks. Each day is a new exploration. The game never changes, but I can never remember from one game to the other. There's nothing I can assimilate that can offset the inevitable confusion of these opposites. Mating the two is the source.
It is a good feeling when exhaustion overwhelms me. I melt into the belief of godhead. I couple this delusion. My aspirations dissolve, and I see an image of what I could be, what I was in some otherwhere. This dream of me resides in the place of absolute clarity; it meets my frail echo. I triumph as I lose. There's a mating of winning and losing. One needs to pay more attention to this dilemma, for it is reality. I can only summon a moment of understanding. Into the darkening sky I fall. My body melts. Soul of Icarus.
The birds take me. They have my heart. I close my eyes. There isn't a moment when I feel more capable than when I give up this thing called incarnation. By God, I divide off the feeling of living like this from the idea of transcending, and it assaults me with a legion of questions in a language no one knows but the birds. Fully intact as the function of my being, the aspirations of my soul seem trivial, transparent and insignificant, but I know better. I play the game, pretend I'm stupid, and I spread my wings. I fly.
I've been told odd things. They come from unexpected places. From the places I thought were sacrosanct, places of my mind that occupy the realm of my soul where I exist, sans the dressings of this meat body, so conveniently situated at the crux of living and dying, the voices materialize; they say who I am in their moment, regardless of my moment. The beginning and end. I'm stretched out in the middle of this. At the focal point, sans dimension or clear wherewithal of physical apparatuses, my life emanates, has always emanated and always will emanate. Living. Dying. Eternity.
What is this thing? It keeps changes shape but always says the same thing repeatedly. I can go inside, wrap myself tightly in self-defeating dramas, beg the vigor of mind defeat the confusions, but nowhere can I fund its defeat. I'm beset. The heave-ho summons only fear of failure. That's an ever present, ever mutating figment of reality. I can move my face in defiance, put on a confidence, but the heart turns back, painting itself darker with every positive feeling I muster. Facades do a good job of showing off a calm, confident demeanor. Lies go deep.
The people are coming soon. I can feel their intent, their baggage. I may not be able to see them, but the feeling is strong. What that provides as the fuel to accept this coming forth is another challenge altogether. I haven't the grist, but I pretend to have it. How is it possible, in this parade of humanity, that I'll be in good company? Why is it that I feel so helpless and vulnerable in the face of this imminent confluence of eyes. I feel the eyes coming on. I fear these eyes. Am I ready to be seen?
I'm going to want privacy for a time. The nook I'm settling into has become a haven for my shrinking sensibilities, in which the world is expanding as I'm shrinking; my mind is doing something else, though. I feel the entirety of man's intelligence compressing ever downward into a bead, a thread, a mere wire. The circumambulation of my senses is driving me inwards and outwards. There is no limit. I feel but a tiny fraction of this metamorphosis, so I can't explain it all yet. I need time. The pressing nature of my soul sweeping inward captivates me utterly.
May I see what you're offering me? Silence. I feel I should've understood the dream, but apparently I didn't. Events are proving me naive. I can sense the offering is sincere, but the one who's offering it won't say what it is. We've been in this room a very long time now. I can't say how it'll turn out. It keeps its eye on me. For purposes of security I've been kept in a careful darkness. How this function meets me as a human being needing human things puzzles me. I'm no long angry. I only want it to end.
Value. It rises as I stand. The cheers are rising. They liked what I did, but I didn't do anything. I stood up. I'd been contemplating standing for a long time. This is the way. I didn't even have to ask. Somewhere deep inside me all the answers are waiting to come forth at the appropriate times. In the depth of this confusion, into which humanity has fallen, I'm alone, I believe, in the feeling that all is not lost. If I'm able to drive thru the endgame, I'll know the truth. Cheers. Yes, I feel it. It's almost time.
It's been awhile. In the center of a vast field a fire burns. I've seen it from afar many times, yet only in glances. Flashes of its realty are the pieces. A puzzle is waiting to be assembled. I could keep my word and not delve too deeply. They say delving too deeply will wound you. The scars, though, are the only truths. They unfold in rolls at my feet. I scramble to keep ahead of them, to know their content, but I'm challenged to a task that has no substance or reproducibility. Ahead of me is the first wave.
I've grown tired, weary to the bone of bending back my will to find a value in going forward on this insane agenda. Too many hoops in a negative groove. Too many backflips for the entertainment complex that all too easily denies the fabric of true reality, the reality we share as a common bond that can never be broken, but commonly whitewashed. Who is it amongst us that can evaluate the nature of this crisis? It's too close to see, too close to feel without medication. The operation will go forward. We need to stop and think, eyes open.
It was precise. The knife was held with a steady grip. Many onlookers made no exclamation as the tide turned toward the inevitable. They merely watched. Kind of like a TV Show without the TV but inside a TV mind. We sit inside the silent electronic brain waiting for it to become human, so we don't have to feel so embarrassed every time we're ridiculed for cheering. This ain't no quaint move toward a placid country existence. This is marking the battlefield. This is assigning duty to the death squad, a precise exercise. It's showing remarkable poise in the cutting.
Falling thru the fiery neck. The hole widens. Girl smiles. Pentagram glitters in the deep moonlight. A river flows. Hard rapids converge the belief system. In deep how the highs match the lows. Even tides glance off the glittering symbol. We are attuned. The rafts give way. They dissolve so easily. We could be afraid, but we're not. Ecstasy. Hard function in the flat sky. It doubles down. Sun makes heavy the swift moon, so delicious. Metal touches metal. Saliva is hot. Red. Purple sways. A growl. In the hidden places we find the rough to become smooth. See it?
A foot in the door. It cranks open slowly. A sliver of light finds me. It carves a neat passage into me. I look within. A vast assembly of moving objects works effortlessly. It gazes at me, if it can gaze at all. I gaze at it. There's a meeting of sorts in a language I cannot decipher. It's meant to be used only once. I take the message in, but I cannot understand it. Time will tell. All other banal things proceed as usual. I know no recourse but to move forward. The options are simple. Live or die.
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