The World Within Us
So, history is written, the past is dead, the future is unborn, and the present bears the marks of the leper. The arrogance of the scribes, armed with knowledge, they shall be blind. Fluage without mercy the mythologies of the past. Take only the gold. For every argument is a flat slab of logic on the garden of freedom.
Drifting further out to sea, deepening currents fill my form. Thoughts drift across my mind, propelled by their own completeness.
The archaeotypes surface from within the subconscious,
the boat bobbing on the surface, the wind rising.
The substance of thought, liquid as the ocean, the lands and ibis ideas and opinions.
No wonder we live on dry land!
But the sea pulls us forward.
Night comes to the oceans, a strange reality that covers the land,
the extremes of men but one side of this,
glides easily across the waves,
follows the undulations of the depths,
and lowers its boundaries to the shores.
The luminescent wave crests and whisperings of the creatures that protect the sea ride to the surface.
We do not often swim in the sea by night.
As the dawn begins to surface on th eastern horizon, the strange forces that kept our minds submerged,
dissipate, and drift upward and become the mood of the day.
And as the ephemera of our lives gain, crystallize and take form, we recognize our dreams,and in remembering our return, we partake in the essence of the unconscious, and are yet drawn to solidify, like the land.
Our ideas and opinions make us as islands, and the sea flows between.
Imagine, god dreams, and man falls into form; and some pieces are lost, and some pieces are found, as I am lost, but not yet found. And in this dark night, I am supposed to feel my lostness, to feel in my finding that I AM that being that fell. The non-moving, it is said, draws us forward, blindly, into the night of god.
I am the lamplight on the branch, no pagan moon. The city lights dominate. Seen through the unleaved tree, the streetlamp is caged in branches, swirling. Certainly a
beautiful image as I pass beneath, and before the image, and after, is nothingness, like the memory of the womb, or the thoughts after death. But regardless of desire,
I am still here. Discovered, I return from a fleeting memory, and have again to present a brave face.
In the end, love is forsaken, never returned in living, false promises shrugged off with death. I go alone, as you follow after. Dying inside, dying into ourselves, fearing
the possible immortalities, the loss of volition and this knowledge: that inscriptions in the book of fate have not been fulfilled. Great works imagined, mere notes made
manifest inklings of possibilities, devoid in the hot breath of posterity. Oh how I refuse final epitaphs! I invoke my immortal intransitence, positioned as I am on the
steep banks of a whirlpool, near an interior maelstrom. Destruction to enter, frustration to observe. I must be released! The internal knots undone, I invoke my severe right, my inviolable right, to be released from this fascination with the surface of things.