The wind blows wild a gale,
as I listen to the strings maniacally strummed by a kid creating his own tornado of sound…
What matters to me?
I have long grown out of using myself as a barometer of anything, instead have always near and dear a sense of value shaped as Others, which is always distilled down to honesty, which is creativity, for the forest may make similar sounds, as the wind rustles through the leaves in the branches, the sunlight at dawn creeps across the rivers may make similar shadows, and its not the at a glance of the beast within marvel of shapes and sounds never heard before, its their honesty and purity, which make me feel alive. Each expression has never happened before…This is the beauty of Existence, unbridled and raw.
This transfers to the instinctive lens through which I view humanity. Of which includes me.
And its a harsh measure. For I find the same conclusions of our accursed species in the word of many an honest writer of centuries ago, as I have been forced to draw through my own experience. And I realise that nothing has changed. Despite the carnage we are prone to. Always in the righteous name of revolution and rebellion.
There is no separation of this capacity for carnage I spout, between me and it. I see all the same ugliness in myself. As well as the brief, unexpected moments of the sublime I find within and without, floating face up in the small pool of a waterfall with butterflies prancing in the air inches above my eyes and the starlight and water pouring down as one through a perfect canopy of slender branches and dancing leaves… which I try to slow down in time to savour…yet these scenes always move more quickly and I only realise their perfection more as an memory than experience after they have come and gone. Perhaps that is how it must be. We would be Gods if we could simply command and arrange around us the sublime…and we are not Gods. We are no better yet often worse than the weasels and rats, certainly lesser than the butterflies and their blinded by the light cousins of the dark moths…
The world is in a constant cycle of chaos. SO much pressure from many directions to deal with in order to simply survive, let alone thrive. We are voraciously given matches to burn our paper dolls. And told to set fire then share the footage in ME ME ME words on facebook…the world is told to focus on selfies…I could gallantly prance into a treatise on ‘We see nothing of the Within without the Without’…but its simpler to say that we are as fucked as we have always been.
Its those who not promote their reasonable madness dressed as righteousness and compassion, but accept it and stay responsible for it, and still can show honesty…THEY ARE THE ONLY ONES WHO CAN LOVE. Whose love is worth more than a human shaped dog seeking a pat and stroke and the ball thrown.
Everyone else is looking too much towards their carefully chosen, iphone altered and embellished then shared on Insta reflection…flung towards the social media response to their latest self-ie.
Thrice this year I have walked past, found eye to eye and all things beyond in the shadows which follow us everywhere, even in our dreams, but they become us in our dreams…a former human outline I placed my everything in, then slowly took back what was left of myself from, and then missed her, and felt so much still, in the shadows still the same after what seemed a mercy killing…the same…so I pranced back, then threw myself towards the catalyst, when heading a million miles away from her and everything else I held comfortable. I understand the response I found, but I am still hurt by the reality of the Now, which is my pale politeness reflected at me with smiles and looking everywhere but me…which is not longing for the relationship that was once king and queen, its sadness of how I could be so close to another and then be made to feel at any sporadic opportunity we collide in passing that my mere existence is to be everything but acknowledged…despised and avoided at all costs.
Humans are often horrible. Deep down, they are spiteful cowards.
I am no victim, of anything but my own treachery.
For whilst I smile, far deeper than people realise, when I suggest I am closer to weasel than human, I am false,
for I know damn well in my femurs,
that I am projecting…
I am a human disinterested in transcending to more human ideas of universal bliss,
cursed to find myself more jealous of the wolves howling,
than finding their howl within mirrored without in my own species…
fangs and matted fur and cracked claw,
ever ready for war.
soothed by rare and precious moments of love and peace,
but always too aware that I must have been born in a terrible storm…