The world today is pearled in fog, made mystical, revealed to be the mystery it’s been called all along. With proof like this, who needs clarity? I would live in fog, dim diffuse rays of sun brightening its crystal bits, if it meant that the dream might never end, but the ground lands on me from underneath with a thud and my blood must once again be pumped on its endless journey from cell to cell, cleansing, feeding, scrubbing, nurturing, washing, hardworking heart never resting, never tiring.

I’m the one who surrenders, giving in to the grey glamour of deathwishing gloom, but inside my flesh the work never ends, no matter how much trash I flush down the hatch for my system to try to synthesize into useful fuel, processing the rest into easily excreted batches which are then dispatched with pleasure. Oh, baby. What more could one want from a physical life?

That question is easily answered. Yo, I want it all. I want everything possible that brings growth and pleasure in its wake, even if it involves great effort. Just give me inspiration, motivation, a reason to live. That is what we all call for in our separately desperate moments, hmm? - a carrot to be dangled just out of reach, to keep us moving forward, forward. Is this not progress, the mad rush from past to future, keep blood pumping hard and digestive system working all the way?

Of course, the dark at the end of this tunnel of lights can be frightening as hell itself, but you got a good ride so why deny yourself rest and dormancy, blessed relief from the rat race of living? Just ignore the nagging voice in the corner, the one whispering, Why can’t living be more leisurely than this? Even leisure should be more relaxed…. Why strain at leashes that don’t exist except in your mind? Why be so blindly insistent? Why resist the gentle pulsing ebb and flow of tides and seasons, renewals, circles and cycles of life? Can you afford the cost of this way of existing?”

You chuckle indulgently and send the little complainer on its way, then cuddle back into bed with that book you were reading. Pictures in your head are safer than real reality, the outdoors under the moon sort, the chill of night air on bare skin, fey silver light followed through to misty morning sunrise type. Who needs that whacked out weirdness? That’s what books were invented for, television and tivos, iPods, the internet and stimulating conversations; even beautiful music keeps us deaf to the call of the wild. We pray to self-created technogods to protect us from the raw ancient world chaotically teeming beyond the bounds of once-echoing inner caverns.

In the early times, the empty places inside were our pride and joy, endless spaces waiting to be filled with all types of toys, but now they are crowded to the rafters and beams with crap accumulated from everywhen imaginable. We weave wandering paths between wavering stacks of temporarily treasured trash that we don’t know how to dispose of.

Well, where the heck would we put it? The world’s already full to bounty with its own stuff yet we keep collecting and creating. We are compelled, having sold our souls in the distant past in return for the privilege, and we now pretend that souls are the fancy of simple, superstitious fools who should be laughed out of all seriousness. The red shoes we wished for have worn the floor away while we swoon in exhaustion unable to rest, the crazed bird’s nest of our brains crammed with treasure collections that crush our selves out of existence with glacial persistence.

What to do now but give it all away? Erase the equations from the blackboards, give the chalk to the children, read books to birds and fishes, rewind the tapes to trecord the songs of whales, reformat the hard drives and give the keyboards to the chimps. Let them dance on the keys til Shakespeare’s plays are born again on a new stage.

All the world is waiting for something new, when we minds of ‘so-called man begin to bond, to blind ourselves with beauty, to surrender and fall to be coated in shiny essence made from all the treasure collections melted together into a pot of purest gold.

How can we get there from here? We’re blocked by those infernal red stoplights of fear attended by rage’s raucous sirens shrieking “No! Don’t go there!”

Oh, my kindred and ah, my children, there is a way, a sacred, secret way never before trodden, silent virgin pathways that exist already in potential through trackless forests. The problem is, you’ll find just one shining path for each seeking soul. All it takes is willingness to drop your clothing, quiver in the naked terror you have hidden so long from your mind’s eye, go it alone deep into your own wilderness and then, ah then will be the answer which cannot be known until the moment in which it is revealed.

Haha, gotcha with that one. Think there’d be an answer here? Answers aren’t the answer, they’re the problem, so get real and dump that load by the road along with your clothes.

This entry was posted on Saturday, January 27th, 2007 at 2:41 pm and is filed under truth and strangeness. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.