I turn to Sagan, for his simple, mega wisdom>

When I emerge from the ocean, my senses more awake and aware than ever found on land, I feel my soul sigh, my spirit growl, as I move from wind and waves and mad lunar energy flowing through me, throwing me hither and thither, naked in the deep, glaring at the horizon in calm wild wordless marvel of where the ocean meets the sky…to…duplicates of duplicates in human form, speaking a language which seems so foreign from the voice of the tides that it leaves me feeling I left Neptune and arrived on a long dead moon of barely animated human shapes all speaking from the same script.

I could lovingly write pure and gorgeous of my immersion into the wilderness, if delving into the scribbled scrambled transmissions inked into my notebook when on the cusp I find close to daily….the reality is that those dreams lived in wake, are reflections of the source of everything dreamed..no GOD talk…maybe something related to the pagans, and we have come not just no further since their druidry and mega aghast at the fire and lightning, we have gone more wrong…and to move beyond the staggering inspiration and sanctuary of the most important parts of our existence,  I turn to Sagan, for his simple, calmly pounding into the femurs and synapses alike…wisdom>

Ever admiring of those few and far between who transcend the common mentality, and dig deeper and higher to wonder the devil what this is all about.

Its as unfortunate as the same disease of cynicism that becomes me too often to know myself as anything different, to find, those of the tribe long lost in collective presence, yet able still to connect…focused upon the fight for the planet, the fight for less horror, the fight for futility, yet this reminds me of a scene from The Watchmen, where the god guy looks at the Lady Night fierce in her devotion, for nothing matters more, and he says something along the lines of…

this is the moment I fell in love with you. Even knowing I will die, you will still fight for me…

There is a fight to be fought, until we can travel to Venus…

Creative types…by my reckoning, are those who wish to express themselves as a force of nature. They are not challenging the blizzards or asteroids, they are sharing some emission geyser pure and strong, vital. Their voices hunt more than ears and fuckbook likes.

Wannabe intellectuals confined to their chorus of fuckbook,

Jungian blinkered feminist acolytes of atavistic, high brow ‘mansplaning’.

Activists acting only with their quickfire fingerplay on the invitation to repeat the mainstream mantra on a silicon valley RAND sponsored platform.

hey you! Yay! bullshit abound more than anything shared which can cause even the author to question the world view.

The ocean still in me, sky has become the imprint of waves frozen in time for our human eyes…..fragments as rain falls all around me, a forest of lived in dream passages…it all leaves me, this magic, the more I am drawn into Society, moving from every slight turn of Venus reflecting her planetary succulence, the most beautiful painting my eyes and beyond could ever witness found by simply floating in the tides and looking up…

I seek anything that means something.

 

 

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