21 July '17
Arcane wisdom flows, indifferent to the position of logical mechanisms, of recluse foragers of darkness, the merchants of ersatz. I offer the translucent vest of privilege, yet I don the cloak of redolence, the fear of antiquated logarithms and outcast schisms of redundent folk tales, I marry the wind to my resilience in the deep of sleep, and fall from heavens pallet to the floor of treacherous consciousness, a vast upheaval of preclusive doubt shattered in light of pre dawn dissolution. The day is young, the system researches to find no solution in affect, of episode reflex there is but vacuous restrain, for the molecules of the moment are of incredulity, dispersed to the hounds at bay, aged in the wine of quiet desperation.
Illustrious as it may appear, an apparition of silt is an actuaries apprentice in the dogmatic realm of definitions.
I slide under the cusp of the wave and dive into the blue tranquil sea, my ears piercing the coolglide of a daggers edge plunge, arms held to my side, a moment of thrust from a kick of my legs, and heaven unfolds the sea of riches, buoyed by the vastness of that matter which is of inconsequence unless held in conscious perspective, awed in conjecture, surrendered in hope of escape. Twirling, twisting, seething to enhale the sea, but knowing the peril of believing I am of the water, for I am not. I tresspass in the serpentine valley only. I live though, in light of air, of forrest, grass and dirt. I must turn to the surface, gasp for relief, restore my fortune. I am not of Tridents underworld. I am of the breath of Eden.
Redemption. Sought for what wrongs? Only those that Ive done to own self, that reak havok on my own soul. I see through the eyes of God, yet I hear through ears that spark Satans laughter. The whisper of desire taunts me, relentless in its surmise that I am but a small branch, a twig, to be jostled about, then cast to the black river of desolation. But I am a tree, of trunk and root. Tear me from the soil of life? Stand ready Satan. From my longest, strongest branch, your cowardly hide will hang. God is love, and God loves a good hangin.
So still…….the comets roar in, mesas tremble, a foot of grass swirls in sarcasm, rapt, tangled, trodden with no mercy, the trajectory of atoms squeeze the summit stratosphere, the hoot owl flees the woods of erie likeness to the jungles turmoil! Prevail the dark moss that hangs in effigy, the doorway slung wide, a canvass of trechcery ! Sad to behold, the rapscallion dagger quests the blood of ages, the superimposed relic of my domain.
Of syllogisms, the rococo template for twine time loopholers, stretched in doubt, it seems reconciled novas of quandry amuse the being of this peasant portenter on the street of mercurios has beens and reclamates. Do I thrive on the straw laid at my stall? Or, do I break the rails of this episode tangent, and run to the glimmers edge of domain, sparkle in told wisdom of trails, to roar, and soar, like Theloss on Antiguas shoreline! The merciless renounce, but the quieters of conscience prevail, to wrap the elephants tail to the arching limb, and pull down that ancient tree, the light now open to the tranquil germinations that grip the forests floor. The search of dooms door finds only the glass eye, never the seer of suspect, in the teeming paradise, the reckon of defiance.
I slide under the cusp of the wave and dive into the blue tranquil sea, my ears piercing the coolglide of a daggers edge plunge, arms held to my side, a moment of thrust from a kick of my legs, and heaven unfolds the sea of riches, buoyed by the vastness of that matter which is of inconsequence unless held in conscious perspective, awed in conjecture, surrendered in hope of escape. Twirling, twisting, seething to enhale the sea, but knowing the peril of believing I am of the water, for I am not. I tresspass in the serpentine valley only. I live though, in light of air, of forrest, grass and dirt. I must turn to the surface, gasp for relief, restore my fortune. I am not of Tridents underworld. I am of the breath of Eden.
How do we achieve a good life? Is through fame and glory? Or is it simply through the respect and honor we give to others?
I am a keeper of this essay Esinz! Youve trussled that which is an abyss, for next to the opining, incognizant, crimp setting orators of hazelnut coffee ads and retribute sideslammers of Deuteronomy’s hen scratch hermitafore ramblings, your Thoreauistic galvanization of exact profundity quells the sleeping giant in my latitude of introspection. Say not that the reaper of fortune is but the beggar of solemnity. Cast the glowworms shadow over Ephesians fields for the mass of strangers that wish to meet on a crimson day in the ashes of glory!
In the darkness we see the light of the translucent and illusory ideafication of infinite pasts, futures, and presents, giving us some modicum of solace that our banal existence may transcend our corporeal wretchedness and despair. With this we may seek the higher ground of abstract divinity and repose, but the true seeker of enlightenment continues to stare into the void of fractal regenerated emptiness, embracing the wonder of solitude and the vague perceptions of uncertain realities and distant dreams.