“A portion of mankind take pride in their vices and pursue their purpose; many more waver between doing what is right and complying with what is wrong”
O my Grief, be wise and tranquil still,
The eve is valid thin which even now drops down,
To carry peace or care to human will,
And in a misty veil enfolds the town.
While the vile mortals of the multitude,
By pleasure, cruel tormentor, goaded on,
Gather remorseful blossoms in light mood–
Grief, place thy hand in mine, let us be gone
Far from them. See how the vanished years,
In robes outworn lean over heaven’s rim;
And from the water, smiling through her tears,
Remorse arises, and the sun grows dim;
And in the east, her long shroud trailing light,
List, O my grief, the gentle steps of Night.
There are so many reactions that come and go and we have no idea why they are there or what they mean. It’s like, they serve some confusion, some knot in our head, but we don’t know the knot so we can’t untie it.
But it trips us.
There are a lot of good things in life that occur and even things that have not yet occurred. But it seems, for me at least, the reality of the good things are dwarfed by the facade of the bad things, their overwhelming nastyness casting a great deep black shadow over all my world.
I’m not exaggerating either… it really feels like eveyrthing is covered in mud and walking ten feet is an arduous task. I suppose I really believe that I will die in this, so I lay down and sit in the mud, contemplating my slow but definite demise.
The mud is a mirage. Just like in a movie. As if some witch has cast a spell on me to visualize the mud, actually feel it with my skin and feet, yet I am actually walking on green pastured surrounded by life and a holy arrow in the sky pointing me in the right direction.
It is entirely like a curse, or a spell, for if I focus and truly question the validity and likely-hood of there being mud around me… such as the smell, what I see, how far I’ve walked and where I am able to walk, all these various aspects of my environment make the mud completely non-existant.
It must be something within, deep behind my eyes, that precedes all the senses that clouds my vision so strongly that even the weight on my feet is an imagined reality due to this spell.
I feel the mud; I see it, though there is none. Like some deep seated conditioning that causes one to see a mirage, or to see 5 lights when there are in fact 6…. some desire in me to see the mud, else something magnificently terrifying will happen to me.
What would make me fear walking in pastures so?
What would spawn such a creative desire in me, so as to manifest mud in such a realistic fashion that all of my senses see, hear, feel and smell mud. My hopes are drenched in it, and my past appears so much more difficult than it should have been… and perhaps, the past really does have mud… for if I believed I walked in it, I carried its weight with every step. So, as I glance behind me, whether there be mud or not, I was effected by it completely, and so, the real existence of it is irrelevant – it existed holistically for me, and so, my past is full of mud.
I suppose that lends credibility to my present delusion, and the delusion of the future. That if my world thus far was filled with it, even my awareness that it is a delusion becomes irrelevant – I see the delusion itself as the mud, and I cannot rid myself of it.
And so, it is no longer even the mud that is of real issue. It is the delusion, which I view as the crux upon which I walk day to day.
Delusions are destroyed by reality, by truth, by the exploration of truth no matter what the cost… the procedure of doing fantastically obscene things to question what are the perceived limits of our behavior to truly understand what is real and what is not. Delusions walk hand in hand with imaginary fears, and so despite the fact that at the current moment I have no idea what it is that is manifesting this brown guck all around me, the pursuit of truth will dissolve it in time, freeing my legs, my arms, my eyes and most importantly, my vision of the future.
~!~ A spoken Word is a Moment. A written Word is Eternal ~!~