12 March '17
As the stars in the heavens shine brightly into the interstellar void, we stand up against the despair of our lost dreams. The moon shines luminously in its reflective desolation and the sun burns blindingly in its atomic fire, and so we are caught between their fire and ice in a world of beauty and horror. How then should we live? I say live like the stars and the sun to shine into the darkness.
The void is interchangeable with respect to the balance of reasonable contadictions of presumed cognizance. Purge the will of the dreams and suffer the stifling freeze of destinations turmoil, an ingot of gold, the rock in the shoe, the paralization of emptiness of calamity forced by struggle in retrospective enlightenment. How do the innocents prevail in the cat paw toying of the interpreted righteous fellows that sleep only to awake the crows on the devils backbone, annihilating the future of the guiet eyes, the ones that might forgive the drearmy nightfall, to let the sun cheat the rain one more time. I am aware of the beauty, the ox is the burden of the manifestation of men of light domains, frivolous scurriers to the troth of fortune. The truth is known to the agile warrior that seeks no redemption, that motive of circumpect alliance to the thicket of vines on the shadowy path, a predisposed dispostion to ache for the ages, but revive the weary with optimism.
Little bird tapping on my shoulder, give me a clue. Where does the tree meet the sky? The very top, the highest branch, the conicle essence of majesty in the realm of fortune? The sky huggers sway, the light and air is pure treasure, and free to the kingdom of solemn oak, birch, redwood, or the like. The passing of time has abundance in nature, and really, no conjecture. For conversation is moot. Little bird can hop the low branch to the forrest floor, and in an instant visit the pinnacle. I see none but the making of my destination. The trappings of youth, the reeling of age old prophesies into context vertigo is my breath in intangible partitions of insight. I need nothing of the earth, the earth needs much of me though. I transgress the obvious, dream the highest branch, yet its not my hierarchy to flit about chirping. I am to listen and be told in seasons and whispers, and remedy the broken branches for the little bird.
Constance Freeling, the inside switch maiden of the town of Calverts Dam, two hundred miles from the Davenport Reservoir, relays the telegram, signals the train to slow in the harbor station, and pulls the last lever of her night, to look out the dismal window to the hollow street of her denial. The strain of mundane life has reckoned with her soul and the tears of struggles have creased her vacant, stone face.
The race begins to scuddle the ship at birth. Into the realm of posthumous terror we are cast, and Constance is a mirror of all that is. I am not to be as I am seen says the ghost. Pretending to know is the characteristic of failure, the block of ice the sun wont melt. Does poor Constance know? I should ask for a small talk with her in my dream tonight.
The quiet eyes search the globe of tarnished weathervains, calypsoing into the fall patterns of afterthought, carousing the inert slope’s of the maidens valley, the ever sought realm of tenseness that forces the blood to follow the veins in a heartless society of somber misunderstanding. The result of a mixup might be the outcome of a moments joy. To watch the candles light the surefire straggler, shown the way, the ruff hewn solid oak banister that guides the stair to the rooms atop, yet slick as powder, can lead a souless caravan to attics of forgotten and cast free thoughts. Those are my entitles, real as now, but quiet, sleeping only to awake in my black turbulent triangle of trancendance.
I see thruogh the thicket of grapevine and thistle that hides the gate to the meadow. But I dont wish to clear that path yet. I am of use on this side of the fence, for I am strong beyond the reckonings of fortitude. I know the dawn, the dusk and the hours between. I am the weakest of the players that grace the stage in this comedy of drama, this sphere of bewilderment I call my world. Through weakness and self doubt, fear and anger, my arrogance and cruelty to those that could have suffered my wrath is diminished to a slight. Let them play. Im not the master of destiny. I am of the wood, the rock. I, myself, am the thicket that hides the fence.
Modi sunt, per spiritum meum, et mitis sapientia, non est salience regum, et fratres mei.