If truth is something we create, then how do we know what’s real and what’s fake?

Can we really trust our own intuitions, or are we just another product of our culture’s superstitions?

Am I really creating what’s inside of me, or is this just another manipulation of society?

Is it possible to stand on a universal truth that denies the existence of universal truths?

When He saw famine,
He fed them
When He saw plague
He healed them
When He was reviled, persecuted
betrayed, scourged, broken,
impaled and crucified.
He blessed them.
When He bled,
He sanctified them
When He embraced the sins of a wicked world,
He redeemed them

Like a kindled fire it smokes

Upon the wood it grows

With no ventilation it chokes

Turning thy friends to foes

From thy tongue in thy cheek the flames doth crack

With the empty words we billow

Tears of sap seep with each fiery snap

As we burn the weeping willow

Withdraw the wood from thy furnace

And if the charred remains ever smolder

Then inward thy glare must turneth

For these flames shall make thee ever colder

A midnight mutter, that indistinguishable sound

Garbled echos of prisoners bound

muffled cries held by chains of denial

Their mere presence that doth defile

To the extent of their chains, abruptly they stop

With nowhere to go, inevitably they drop

Without a sound upon the warden’s chest

Without weight, downward they press

Pressure builds, the constriction holds fast

Like shadow puppets upon the wall ‘tis cast

the heartbeat rhythm that now struggles to beat

The silence continues until the inevitable defeat

Intelligence is like a compass, in that it allows you to go a specific direction but is only useful in the context of the wilderness that you stand within. Without knowing where you are and where you need to go, a compass will only help you stay the course towards an unknown destination. Wisdom is the map upon which the compass lies. That which gives sustained direction the context it needs to ensure the intended destination is reached.

I recently had something astonishing happen to me during my time of morning the loss of my childhood dog. During a moment of intense grief I noticed that I was grieving in poetic verses, in a way I have never written poetry before. I quickly got up and tried to write down what came out of that moment, but as soon as I began to write, it was gone. It was at this moment that I realized that truly authentic poetry comes not from intense thought, but from documented experience in verse. I now realize that the skill of the poet is not in the ability to write, but in the ability to capture vivid experiences before they are whisked away by our cognitive faculties.

Must there be more to life than this?

If there’s no more than this

Then all we have are illusions of ignorant bliss

If there’s no more than this

Then all we know is existential loneliness

If there’s no more than this

Then how can we know we even exist?