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It rears. There you see its head. Compliant by ancient dictates, the ministry of its wrath devises new and unusual means of infecting candidates with cryptic riddles. There in place of all the substantiations required, I'm benefitted by a sole need to keep myself from falling down. I've fallen too often too quickly in a past that dims daily in a obscuring fog. Yet I see it rising, its head, glorious and terrible, defining the moment. What patterns emerge by my insinuations will only deepen the mystery of what I'm to do. That's the question. What am I to do?
Is there a need to be sorrowful when occupancy of the light transfigures all that's believed and held as true, as dawn comes crawling in, as night speaks loud its caveats when not a soul shutters ears but mocks in silence, looks away, defies the clammer as a pesky nuisance, not knowing its vigor, not grasping its breadth? May there be another kind of day? No. This is the day made according to a plan sketched eons ago at a time when sketching was a genetic possibility. Vigorous to a fault we defy nothing but everything when assuming another truth.
You dialogue this way and that. You conceive the connections. They are the conduits of knowledge and anti-knowledge. You decide what flow suits you. You decide how you plug into them. Some may guide you. Some may confuse you. Some may want to lull you into complacency. There is no telling which is which until you connect. Should fate draw you a vile potion there is no usurping King to blame. Fiction is nice. It provides palliative, a drug to bring you down or bring you up. Funny how knowing doesn't catch you an even break. Such is life.
It is complete in a flash though centuries pass for those who cannot see. Seeing obfuscates. Measures and evaluations pale. Geometry scales the operation, as if by a hand from geometry's laws, yet the event falls without. The event is constant, untouchable, insinuating all that exists. Neatly in its conveyance, the event hides in plain sight. Only those who have died in idiosyncratic ways may see the cogs of the perpetual machine turn. They are not to be seen. They merely are. Necessary. We live by those cogs until we die, and then we become those cogs. They are us.
Stopping something that should be stopped lives in the brain unfolding grim resolutions. Defying the beat of the mind, the electrical switches in the scrum of the downbeat objectives living at the end of invisible intentions, there you exist in a dream, as all life flows as a dream cut apart from the train of moments we call the present, for the present doesn't exist but as the mathematical point of our conjectures, a point of no reality and all reality. In that dimensionless sinkhole we dive to pull a life, a universe grown from nothing, rabbit from the hat.
Much of nothing I assume in the grander sense of minimizing want, one can devolve the morass of confusion ensuing with a blink, in which all the galaxies of the universe implode. Sensation creates its own machine. The grinding of its cogs makes a dissonant music I can appreciate. Those who walk away shaking their heads, keeping their fits to a strong sense of propriety, building upon themselves a structure that sustains itself, breed their own for its own, keeping the flies at bey with a clever use of sarcasm. I'm fit to the tale I tell that tells itself.
We've led ourselves into this, a strange background of auto corrections, not meant to carry the day but belittle those who stay ahead by staying behind. They know the backend is the vital entrance to a mistaken choice rendered recklessly during times of headstrong convictions melted down to a holiday celebration we can't remember. They know how to correct the flow is to swerve the flow gently till it's feeding that which feeds, a backend glory hole no wisenheimer would deny or regret. I can see how well this'll go over when the bomb goes off and the children sing.
You want to see something, but you can't. You try to see it with all your might. It's not there, you say! I've been duped, you say! Really? Looking inside the domain of decision an emptiness yaws like a giant shark's maw. Insatiability grinds your matters to a pulp, digested instantly. It flows on. Its hunger only increases. You let it out. You decided it was time. I heard you. Everyone heard you. There's no denying it, although I'm sure you will. You can't help it, can you? Look again. It's closing in. Your value is about to zero out.
How squalid are these times, what penury serves its coffers but for a penny or two to be dropped into the river, left behind as a corpse, ignored as a piece of trash. You can be kicked about, battered by the times, pummeled to bloody sores by indiscretions and the loud hammers of hatred, yet still be seen a stately gentleman of stature. You can deceive the brightest eyes, quickest wits, that would all be astounded to find you to be a quivering ball of terrors, easily wound into a fit of fears, that none of them could ever see.
Awake we see the cue, doppled like madeover grief in the mud where we dream in limbo, that we might be even more awake, awake to aptly fuddle the crib in dystopian ecstasy, crawling into the night where the sun muses on itself in a black shroud likened to the other we feel when no one sees us weep, grasping the other thru dim wakefulness before sleep consumes our vital logic, where we cannot hold for fear of letting go. The die is cast to the game. We must dive, that we might fly, plunging headlong into the eating sky.
So they think they are thinkers dudded in the finery of thinking's garb, that their minds are embroidered in a Kingly fashion swarming over the creeping landscape where they think they rule, holding forth as beings in tune with the times and rhythms that elude the tightest scrutiny. They think they see. They proclaim their incisive vision, calling to those around who hunger for sight, who are desperate to find an inkling of reason in this torrid chaos we call the dome of reality that sculpts itself in an ever escalating panic. Yes, they see. Blind rabbits in a maze.
Hovering about, the objectives remain elusive, though they play at our wits with apt finesse. We grab at clues they emanate to distract, and we clutch at prayers to be released from this game. It bobbles on the drop down custom of its overarching attractiveness, sending those, so entranced, to a fitting endgame they hardly anticipated. Such dabbling in the black arts can give one a black eye that runs to the depths of awareness. Our bruises, worn as patches of honor, only earn us laughter, jeers and mockery from those who praise us to our faces. The lies triumph.
Languishing the dead place of heart, keeping something else, something private alive, something that should be dead but isn't, he rode a belief none could reject for offensiveness. It merely was as a testament to a soul twisted out of shape. You could divide his heart into many pieces and they would never add up to the original that had its chance but lost a bet in a hasty reduction of the time he spent as a small child looking for love but finding hate instead, a constant battery, constant pummeling, a nurture that conjured the worst of the worst.
I haven't ridden this far, this way, to find myself out of finding myself. The avenues are long and twisting, many varied, comprising of diabolical twists this way and that. Should I lay blame on fate? Shall I name an opponent? Is there anything contrary that I might view to give substance to this alleged machination, or shall I be the device of something's avaricious desire to see things destroyed for the sake of being destroyed? We are pawns, all in all, despite wealth and every aspect of being alive that contributes to this story. I shall continue to ride.
One cannot know how their device of morality may sway and bend in an unseemly wind that comes out of nowhere. It is from the 'nowhere' that comes the surprise, as bait, one cannot guard against fully. One may speculate. One may chart the course as best they can, but when that moment comes, and the device bends by course to steer away by going abreast of the aggressor, then you'll know how your mettle bears up or crumbles at your feet becoming mud, through which you slip, barely recovering a stance that bears the indelible mark of your fall.
You may continue with the rushes. They gravitate toward the end of you and the beginning of something you may not have planned or dreamt, but siphoned from a private well of mind long forgotten for safety' sake, or the other's primal need to control everything that you do, think or say. I know of such a one. She delves into the minutia we call privations that carry us from one moment to another moment, lending them a credibility otherwise trashed for a faux attempt at artistic veracity. Then you'll know how you go, ending up at her beginning again.
Take, take, take, is that all you can do, take, take, take, take, ramming it home, and take, take, take, given it to me, baby! Hip bone. Thigh bone. All yours, dad. Come and give it to the bone giver, dad. We's all gotta give sometime! It's the crying-out-loud way, daddyo! I have no bone to pick, but a lot a bones to give. I gotta give. But you take, take, take, take, all nothin but take, take, take, and slamming it to the message mind, we got it all, we got nothng. We got the rights, baby!
So it rests uneasy now. They led us into the large, ornate room and offered us chairs. They told us we would have to wait awhile. That's all right, we agreed. We'd waited this long; may as well wait a little bit more. No one told us. Someone in the distant past, one of us recalled, said that we were on the wrong path. We would be trapped someday in a place we could never leave and never understand. This place would be our resting place where there would be no resting. He gave us the feeling something was up.
You fix what you can however you can, whenever. This comes upon one as a burst of dark light. It penetrates the ego fast as a hot knife passes through ghee. One can defy the roundabout confusions ensuing, but one cannot tolerate the leave-taking of sensibility on the cause of responsibility being the casualty. Such lovely consequences burrow into the flesh of mind and stay as a cancer. Then might they see some recompense, that the afflicted might see or feel what's been done, and why they failed. Some, however, will never see or understand. They adore the lies.
How we fear how we hide, hiding from the fears we hide as we hide from all that issues from the core of disbelief. That we should rend our mind from the fabric of reality that deems us unworthy of reality is a power we cannot see until we need to see, then we see the weapons in our hands in our hearts in our vim rising on the horizon riding on the portent of defeat. It's always defeat in our lens that confounds. None other than the savage within is our salvation and comfort, being the harbinger of death.
I mean for this to be in my heart resting between beats a silence loud as love is mysterious, this love I hold for you, for in that silence I may be found as I am without the obtrusive encumbrance of lies held so tightly for truth, that if we lost our grip we would surely fall into an oblivion in a strange stillness that no one could decipher for his soul. In this silence is found more truth than could be put into hallowed words. In these unspoken words, I give you all I can give for your smile.
What kind of mind are you seeking, what manner of thought material? What means to an end are you desiring in this case? Few have come forward with the notion of solving it. Most want to confuse, obfuscate, deliberately derail any progress toward a solution. This goes on and on. No one seems to care. Meanwhile, the air we need is expanding. Everything is expanding, and few care; fewer yet are doing anything about it. They're laughed at, mocked and eventually ignored. Such is the world we live in, a world whose priorities are governed by something unseen, undefined, omnipotent.
The matter of the soul stoops beneath our raptures. It elevates and diminishes at the same time. I can put my mind into it, but not my hand. My body is free of infection, but my mind is vulnerable as a newborn. Whatever it is, it has an invasive quality. What we are remains a question. Beliefs are legion yet incompatible; no consolidation is possible, but we do have the means to create a really interesting graduate program in comparative religions and philosophies, but to what end? Who comes out in the end? Pieces of paper, decay, confusion and despair.
We're clapped to a binding out of our fists inside out fists, holding us to the corral designed to keep us well, keep us safe, keep us down, as if to say, we need you to be silent, quiet, meek and free of the raw aggregates of free thinking. Your thinking is ours. We decide how you think, how you move, how you deliberate your independence out of choice. It's simple. Surrender your rights, and we'll take care of you. We'll be your guides, your servants. We will take care of you and we will control you. That is best.
In the dome of our eyes we see how they see. Each day our vision shrinks as it broadens in another way, as it opens to a vista from a new brand of eye. Those who work hard to maintain us fiddle the controls with meticulous care and skill. They even let us see the control board. It's fun to watch, all those pretty dials and lights. All a grand light organ. All a way to draw us away from our doom. The want to save us. Looked upon as children, they know how soft and complaint we are, sponges.
Coming to the end of this we feel another beginning, but what?. One life is phasing out. No small disappearing act. The incredible shrinking world of the stage is watching itself shrink. It excludes us. We don't get to go along. The halls, wings, giant curtains, deep stages, deep as imagination, all fading from sight, but we know they're still there. We seek a miniature perspective. Perhaps that's how it'll be. Perhaps we'll find a way to shrink, to fit those stages ever shrinking, those costumes, those wings. Perhaps not. Yet, the ideas will live on, will always live on.
I make what I love, what I can eat, what I can devour in silence that opens into a cacophony of pleasure. Sounds odd, doesn't it, contradictory, a walking, living paradox, but isn't that the way of life, how we devolve moments that stitch a confusing wrap, bundling us to a hot device we never expected. These tiny kinks in reality, these paradoxical events shape us as the beings who inhabit a world that has no reason, no melodious rhyme, no catch for a whistle to span one linkage to another, no. We are bound to a crush of dissonance.
You took the sign of it. You took it to heart, embedded matters in a private place no one could find, least of all you. Do you know what you've done? Can you know? Is it beyond knowing? The hunger possessed you. You sought satiety. You found it. When the hunger passed, when your flesh was calm again and no source mind pushed out desire, you saw and felt nothing but the calm. All that which bedeviled you had vanished. Inside the sated heart, though, lurked a knowledge, a pesky knowledge. It wanted you to forget. So you did. Obligingly.
Eroding the way backward, finding an excuse to forget where you hid the map, being alive to a death you initiated by proxy in demand of that which sees but never acts, in line with that which feeds encouragement, you diminish yourself by giving nothing vital, nothing as a way out of the question that nags, pulls and prods you day and night. Should you find the source you would never betray it; betraying it would put you in the sights of that which keeps record of everything it doesn't embrace as a necessary ingredient in a facade of life.
The going feels gone; to become the gone we've become the going itself. We are the path on which we trod on the path toward ourselves. We've lost this acumen as the purveyors of our destinies. This could only come as a shock to those who believe in such superannuated nonsense as destiny. There are those who subscribe to such belief structures, on which is tagged recipes of a deity that we should institute dishes in names that have no substance but the vacuous driveling of preachers who cast their dies on the decks of such bets and always lose.
How does hatred run so deep on waters so still, that the mind might circumambulate the domain of peace in a disguise of questions to elude the furies unseen, those fires in ice that burn without attenuation or explanation existing on a level we pass by oblivious? No devil or demon, as they like to declare with definitive stamps of approval then dismissal, but by the cascade of choices flung into the collective like used tissues clogged with poisonous snot, that all the created hells may run rampant with impunity by the diseases foundered so quaintly, so delicately, so easily.
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