"existentially" poems
It was but was not god nor goddess.
It was but was not deva nor devi.
It was but was not angel nor demon.
It was but was not metaphysical being of any kind.
It was but had not any name nor could it be named.
It was but had not any face nor likeness.
It was but had not any body or corporeal state.
It was but had not any form nor lack of form.
It was but not incarnate nor disincarnate.
It was but was not existent nor non-existent.
It was but could be described in words in any way.
It was but had not depth nor height nor breadth nor volume.
It was but could not be measured in any way.
It was but had not materiality of any kind.
It was but had not immateriality of any kind.
It was but had not space nor lack of space.
It was but had not direction nor lack of direction.
It was but had not nothingness.
It was but had not somethingness.
It was but had not anythingness.
It was but had not beingness.
It was but not Isness or non-Isness.
It was but had not light nor dark.
It was but had not wetness nor dryness.
It was but was not nowhere.
It was but was not nowhere.
It was but was not somewhere.
It was but was not anywhere.
It was and then It manifested the nature of Its essence
and became the universe and all that was in the universe.
All that was incarnate and disincarnate.
All that was physical and metaphysical.
All that was existent and non-existent.
And still It was.
It manifested Itself in ignorance of Its own nature as the Isness of the Universe,
in order to participate in the existence It had created from Its own essence,on an equal and fair level with humanity.
It gave of its own essence by putting a small piece of its own essence--the individual Isness-which is equal and autonomous and individual and independent--into all human bodies,both female and male,at conception.
And It made humans ignorant of their nature--the individual Isness--
as It made itself ignorant of Its own nature.
And then It set humans and Itself the Riddle of the Existence
that had come from Its manifestation of its nature as the universe and all that was in it.
It posed these three questions to humanity and to Itself.
1--Who am I?.
2--Why am I here?.
3--When I knowhow I am then what is my purpose?.
Who am I?.
Like all humans,and for the sake of fairness,
It manifested Itself into ignorance of its own nature also.
The Isness of the Universe set humans the task of realising their own nature--which is the individual Isness--as an equal individual autonomous and independent part of the essence of the Isness of the Universe,so that they could then show the Isness of the Universe Its own essence and then share existence together.
The principle governing Its action in creating the universe and all it contains, especially humanity,was that before you can reach the heights of existence you must go through the depths of existence.
Why am I here?.
Obviously I am here to answer the first question.
After answering the first question --which can only be done existentially and not intellectually--
there would then be the third question to be answered.
The answer to the first question lies in regaining your existential nature--the individual Isness--as a small but equal,independent, individual,nameless,formless,genderless and non-physical Isness formed from the Isness of the Universe which is free from Mind and Conditioned Identity.
The answer does NOT lie in amassing the false knowledge of all "religions" and "political systems that the Mind and Conditioned Identity have created in order to mislead the individual Isness from realising ,existentially,its true nature.
The Isness of the Universe did not want a world of maniputed puppets,as the Mind/Conditioned Identity,does but in order to achieve fairness in solving the Riddle of Existence,it gave humanity these attributes and the ability to live out their opposites.
Freedom of Will.
Freedom of Choice.
Freedom of speech.
Freedom of Truthfulness.
Freedom of Association.
Freedom of Debate.
Freedom from Violence.
Agreement to Disagree.
www.beyondenlightenment.co.uk
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 1:21 AM UTC
Distance traveled time spent's dynamic progressiveness, existentially transcendental's clairaudience clairvoyance. Metaphysical mystique’s evolutionally metamorphic futurity's fatidic incarnate. Due yesterday’s retrospectively retroactive. Protractive analyses' dimensional delineations. Enigma entity’s dexterously tactile acuity and coordinated agility on the identity crisis. Cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix to synaptic syntax semantics. Prospectus perplexity surreally sublime. Quagmire quandary’s poshly plush. Who am I to think I can conception of the infinite supply? Even the syntactics of eclectic synectics pale by compare to the atrociously impetuous impudence in pugnaciously audacious. Impromptu innuendo's juncture. Imagination’s immaturities are psychic clarity’s entelechy to evolutional tenants élan vital. Fiduciary principle's financially responsible fiscal policies. Mercenary mendacity's plenary plenipotentiary. Innocuous noumenal verity, mystic symbiotic’s chicanery dynamism fealties. Proximity parameter’s perimeter peripherals, vicinity victuals to vigilante villain, propinquity habitation’s harbingers of harangued. The question remains on the tribal: how can I stand next to the person I’m standing next to if I’m carrying on right through them. It’s the trajectory extant in spatiotemporal's telemetry tactician. Well graspy greedy on the stingy frugal to mingy minion and paw flaw laws claws on it. Get a glove, objectified manifest’s diminutive minutia iota’s of self-inductive interstitial extrapolation. Detinue perfective. Traveling down this obtusely overt contusion in my vehicular contrivance convection convolution. Nimbus nimiety exorcism’s aura roan to rainbow mare. Unicorn railway nails. Swarthy ******** swath swizzles on the sweaty swelter swerve to verve.
May 28, 2019
May 28, 2019 at 12:10 PM UTC
**** these violent black holes
Compressing each and every passing soul
****** through these eternities
By vacuums of unknowns
On the other side where entropy awaits
There at the eventful horizon
Another big bang
At heaven's new gate
Hope is but a hypothesis
From an obsolete science book
Outdated in spirituality
Humanity is always
On the hook!
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 10:45 AM UTC
I am a certified expert in the sequential pushing of buttons,
this pushing performed, on a good day, in concert with the
expensively purchased, somewhat rare mental model of
the workings of a recently commonplace variety of machine
dependent at its core on the minuscule presence of increasingly-rare
earth metals allowing for the conditional flow of groups of electrons.
These machines, like their precursors, are further dependent on
the supply of slightly less increasingly rare combustible material
for which armed conflicts are routinely fought and many have died.
My interest in the machines began at an early age,
enticed by the illusion of control, and on the whole,
I think, motivated by the idea that these machines
processing information, the core mechanism of reality,
might be used to create understanding.
In the interceding years, it is increasingly apparent to me
that while some are used for this purpose, most,
like most things around me, are controlled and engaged by
multi-personed organisms concerned primarily with:
1) self-preservation AND
2) the collection of, and limited divestment of,
unit notions of rarefied value, insured by the
existence of another similar organism valued for its
1) self- and nearby-environs preservation AND
2) recent track record of insuring continued relatively easy access
to the aforementioned important combustible materials.
—it is generally considered to people's credit that this notion
of value is thus-derived and no longer as frequently derived by virtue
of possessing a metal which, while of certain non-combustible use,
is basically just pretty rare and really, really shiny.
I find myself again shortly in a need of convincing such an organism
that my button pushing is of sufficient quality,
on sufficiently frequent good days,
that it should consider me a temporary part thereof and divest,
of itself to me, sufficient units of value that I might happily
continue to push buttons on its behalf in the pursuit of further units.
I am, for some reason, somewhat less than thrilled with this prospect
finding it, despite its marketability, a maybe less than important enterprise.
I am existentially concerned by the idea that my whole value may derive
from my button pushing, and is thus further dependent on
the availability of rare-earth metal and also-rare combustibles.
In some delusion of importance amongst 7 billion plus similar primates
and a unfathomably vast universe,
I thought you might be interested to know
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
Baffled this was a question you’d have to ask, I sat tremulous. I’m insular; I’d be enamored with even the most amorphous love, but I’m not inept, and won’t preclude that answering the question is salient. And although I’m not taciturn, I’m rarely extemporaneous, so please excuse my need for verbose prose in answering said question.
You’re attractive. Your strong jaw, small chin and cheekbones were sculpted to make your own eyes glow and an artist’s eyes expostulate dreaming of anything else. Don’t dismiss this as delirium, but rather relish this recondite fact—my first crush came in the fifth grade. It was on a diminutive, outspoken girl, and I was enormous and timid, which developed into a village girl vs. Mowgli, me Tarzan you Jane, King-Kong-Ann Darrow complex. And although I believe with zealous fervor in your strength, your size still incites the young jungle boy inside me. And I hope I can say, without being terse, I’m afflicted with a mysterious affinity for red-hair.
Although I could dwell in the obvious all day, I’ll redirect from the blasé.
Abandon
beats within us both
like hearts to the same pulse,
we don’t coax smiles, we let them slip,
we aspire to happiness like falling of a log.
I have to pry open time’s lockbox and plunder
the night just to relegate the dawn. Bliss becomes
a tangible ****** making even the most existentially
exasperated docile. Knowledge that every other thought
is dominated by one another without it attenuating the magic.
Knowing that if all I have to say is it’s raining outside, you
want to hear it. Twenty-one years of my life I thought
I’d have to hunt love with a knife but you showed me
roaming where you like to wander can wake
the irreverent gods. It’s your superlative
honesty that’s only for me; that virile
smile in your eyes that bid
doubt vacate my mind
Knowing that if I went catatonic, one reproving look from you would cause my heart to break and force my hands to put the pieces back before I stopped breathing. If I could, I’d dawn you like a blanket before every dinner, dusk and dream. And most importantly, we both like crowns.
Jun 10, 2011
Jun 10, 2011 at 8:17 AM UTC
Unbridled absolutes
Existentially running free
No one can tell you
What not to believe
Harvest your values
Sharpen your heart
Don't let fears
Tear us apart...
Compassion and mercy
Are known to sustain
Logic and reason
Are one and the same
.....
Jun 4, 2018
Jun 4, 2018 at 9:00 AM UTC
Tempus Fugit:
Nought is eternal,
Nox is ephemeral,
And
The Charred Canvas
Of
The Night Sky
(Noctis Lucis Caelum,
Scala Ad Caelum)
Bedarkened & besmirched, bespeaks
A
Love-Worn Wayward, Wayworn.
In the
Citadel
Of mine
Temporal Heart
Time
Streams infinitely
As an
Exhalation of The Ethereal One.
The Chronology of
The Arbiter of Fates
Shalt Destine,
Herald Eternitas
Upon
The Phantasmagoric Horizon
Of
Mine Mind's Sky
Wondering
Upon
Days of Yore.
(The Hither,
The Thither,
And
The Morrow.)
These
Luminescent Children are
Are born
To wax Luminaries
Then,
Wax Nebulous
For all eternity.
O, Metempsychosis;
Born of
Edicts Unseen,
Of that
Which was,
Is,
&
Will Be.
(For
All things
Are
Circular & Cycling,
Existentially.)
We were conceived
Infinitely
To
Infinity
And beyond.
Let He, Let She
Whose
Ears & Eyes
Of
The Unuttered Anima
Be unstopped, unfurled
To resonations:
Deep within.
The Emerald Lifestream Anew
Dost begin.
The Sovereign of Songbirds sings
Esprit d' amour
To those who wait.
(Se' Lah.)
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 5:21 PM UTC
Distance traveled time spent's dynamic progressiveness, existentially transcendental's clairaudience clairvoyance. Metaphysical mystique’s evolutionally metamorphic futurity's fatidic incarnate. Due yesterday’s retrospectively retroactive. Protractive analysis' dimensional delineation. Enigma entity’s dexterously tactile acuity and coordinated agility on the identity crisis. Cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix to synaptic syntax semantics. Prospectus perplexity surreally sublime. Quagmire quandary’s poshly plush. Who am I to think I can conception of the infinite supply? Even the syntactics of eclectic synectics pale by compare to the atrociously impetuous impudence in pugnaciously audacious. Impromptu innuendo's juncture. Imagination’s immaturities are psychic clarity’s entelechy to evolutional tenants élan vital. Fiduciary principle's financially responsible fiscal policies. Mercenary mendacity's plenary plenipotentiary. Innocuous noumenal verity, mystic symbiotic’s chicanery dynamism fealties. Proximity parameter’s perimeter peripherals, vicinity victuals to vigilante villain, propinquity habitation’s harbingers of harangued. The question remains on the tribal: how can I stand next to the person I’m standing next to if I’m carrying on right through them. It’s the trajectory extant in spatiotemporal's telemetry tactician. Well graspy greedy on the stingy frugal to mingy minion and paw flaw laws claws on it. Get a glove, objectified manifest’s diminutive minutia iota’s of self-inductive interstitial extrapolation. Detinue perfective. Traveling down this obtusely overt contusion in my vehicular contrivance convection convolution. Nimbus nimiety exorcism’s aura roan to rainbow mare. Unicorn railway nails. Swarthy swastica swath swizzles on the sweaty swelter swerve to verve.
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 10:57 PM UTC
Purely noumenal or epistemologically maieutic? Existentially transcendental transmogrification, transmute, transude, transubstantiate. Spiritual apercu’s incarnate. Infinite possibilities eidetic prospectus perpetrates incorporeity ideology’s perfectible ontology. Elan vital’s entelechy’s apotheosis. Psychic clarity’s evolutional ascension. Perpetuity’s adamant tenacity. Sentience’s inevitably irrefragable logistical tactician. Preternatural’s ostensibly immortal fecund. Yes, lie with me and I will indeed proceed to exceed the parameters of your mind with mesmerizingly enrapturing ecstatic euphoria. Sublimely surreal futurity fatidic and decadently arrogant blatant flagrancy. Incorrigible atrociously impetuous impudence, pusillanimous no. Enthrallingly endearing sensually demonstrative flirtatious flamboyance. What’s to extravagant exorbitance portray……… exserted protuberance’s indefatigably indomitable. Sexuality’s infrangibly latent virilities, erotica erectile errantry’s hubris! Feral phrenic frenzied ***** salaciously seductive.
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 5:40 PM UTC
The iron in my blood has grown too heavy
The only sensation
I have
is anxiety:
the about-to-jump uneasiness of limb
without the adrenaline.
The lump in your throat
almost heartburn like heart ache
but aches have faded to numbness.
I'm dumb.
And founded on this quiet existence
of waiting for the next hill to climb.
Wryly smiling
at the slightest hint of a plateau
and shattering its mirage.
A barrage is barring the beatings of a heart
that I've often questioned existentially
in nights as dark as my thoughts
and equally as empty.
Every relief
stands in cold contrast
to all my other anxieties-
building up their mounds
to amounts unspeakable
in the crowded, concentrated ball
which has made it's way to my throat.
It's heavy.
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 4:57 PM UTC
The difference between ‘this’ and ‘that’
existentially plastered and preparing for nothing
The Hadit and Nuit
Bored and lonely on a carpet and picking acne
The being in and for
The words of infinite relation and perspective
Horus and Nut
On Saussure’s lap dogged, tired, and deceptive
Gilgamesh and Inkidu
"And nothing else matters" Metallica claim
Yin and Yang?
All are the same
and different at the same time
built in illusion
'the paradox conclusion'
God written in Mathematics
And forgotten in words
The Nature of the universe is SO immature
Always sitting and waiting for life to begin
Looking for answers to moral and logical sins
A Non gendered third person pronoun, shin
Cough! and Cough! and sputter and Die!
Burnt by the spent life
Why?
We are but the glorious observers of such things
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 1:18 PM UTC
Baby, there's a
white chalk outline in the street tonight
for the boy down the road
who didn't have a chance at life.
There's a lady working down
at the truck stop on Third,
and she's racing home tonight
to confirm what she's heard.
That's her baby in a casket,
not the usual sort,
and his mother's screaming in the storm
begging God to take this hurt.
There's a girl across town
who lost the things she had,
and the only thing she knows now
is the fright that's in her head.
Her father's in the living room
where he loads his shotgun,
almost hoping that the
**** from prom will
show himself again.
There are children in the desert,
in the city, in the streets
and they are dying every day.
All we do is argue
over what is best to say.
The journalists and soldiers,
those who worked a mile high.
Honest folks are turned to martyrs
and their names are used in vain.
No one considers rationale,
only how to profit gain.
We're political, tyrannical, existentially obsessed;
we haven't got a thought for those
who haven't even dressed.
"They aren't here; they're there;
we haven't got the time."
But if there's anything I know,
it's that my time isn't even mine.
"Jimmy wouldn't take me out tonight."
"Martha never called me back!"
"I wish that Art had never talked to me."
"I hope you have a heart attack!"
People dying every day
and no one seems to give a ****
We are vain and we are damaged
and we will never be the same.
It seems that all which matters
is just how well you play the "game."
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 5:08 PM UTC
What am I supposed to do with all
Of this
Unhinged
Passion —
Okay, calling it passion is a stretch.
It’s boiling ******* anger
For my own existence.
What am I to do?
Share it? With whom?
Who might appreciate?
Even if they do,
I’d probably be dissatisfied
About something.
I’m sure of it.
Why am I so
Existentially dissatisfied?
At what point will I think
Anything is enough,
Or worthy of my
Approval?
Does it need to destroy me in order for me to respect it?
I’m making myself sound like a *****
Really, I am
But a self aware one.
Like, I realize that I’m a pretentious *******
And I hate myself for it,
So that you don’t have to.
Why do I long for attention,
When I am so
Disgusted
By it
Just pathetic,
It’s like I think
the window which I’m looking out of
Makes me better
Than those who have a different view.
Sometimes I wish I was stupid so that I wouldn’t think I was better than other people.
Or at least stupid enough
To ignore my own hypocrisy.
Why the ****
does it always come back to
That story about
The flowers for that dead ******* rat
Is it too late to get a lobotomy?
Sep 1, 2021
Sep 1, 2021 at 12:34 AM UTC
Taunted by unseen forces
I am powerless to extremes
Why shall I be forsaken
In my lucid lover’s dream?
In cognitive slumber
I live a life of grief
I play the easy plunder
And await my special thief...
I see our world
Through enlightened eyes
I know my heart is not divine
The paths of love
Tear through the mind...
Chasing her, I dread the voice
That wakes me when I tire
Beckoning me to pace myself
And seek unknown desires...
The trespasses of one’s heart
Are far beyond the soul
Thus ‘tis the larger part
That I may never know
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 4:59 PM UTC
What is the crisis
a quarter of the way
through life?
Existentially existing in the moment,
I'm constantly inside of myself
while also out.
Conundrum of being up while
I'm also down,
freedom within a blockade.
Oxymoronic hodgepodge of
tantalizing confusion,
tastes sweet on my brain
and thoughts ponder bitter on
my tongue.
Half and whole,
part and full,
questions answered with questions,
seeing things through in simultaneous
interrogatories.
Top here, bottom there,
rights are right,
and lefts aren't wrong.
Phone, texts and emails,
vibrating inside my skull
as I laugh and I cry,
as I seek to find.
Orange to yellow to green to brown,
seasons coming and going
inside my soul,
and I constantly blossom
and refreeze.
Everywhere feels like nowhere,
nowhere my somewhere as
I await a somewhere that's
everywhere.
Losing myself as I find it too,
letting some parts sail away
at sea,
and too there comes new
horizons,
as I surf, skating on the
foam, on the water's edges.
Wading into one crisis,
I'm swallowed by a
wave,
until I burst through the sea and the
salt;
and then the next wave
comes...
for life, it seems,
is salty and sweet,
one tide coming in to sweep itself away
in place of another.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 5:10 PM UTC
Perhaps I am a confusing individual
Believing that human nature is inherently good
While thinking that the world is out to get me
But knowing the universe is indifferent
To my menial existence that has beautiful
Tones lifting other souls into their fullest
Potential where they can live
Abiding by laws of morality
Which is a grey area
Molded skillfully and in a lovely fashion
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 10:59 PM UTC
I have spent my life stumbling over the same mistakes generations of the people around me made clear I should not make. I know now that though this life is hard: this life is good. And I believe it more than ever because I hear it in the music of her words and the smile on her face and I can't help but be excited to raise the new humans and prepare them for the race. They will know life is not always winning because that's always tripped me up, I will show them simple victories like learning to persevere through the hard things. So when they find themselves making my mistakes they will know its okay to walk away and that they never have to justify why they didn't stay because no person will ever be reason enough to cut yourself open and beg to be loved. In the distant future along the fading sun I can tell my life is far from over and in fact it's hardly begun, my life has started and stopped though the world has never waited and I've questioned how we've come into existence and I've existentially debated but I'm aware now, more than ever, I love. I love deeply and passionately and violently it's true, and someday that will be enough for somebody and they'll return the feeling with real meaning and together we will fight the blackness that has threatened us and create a fire in our chests that burns brightest when we're together so if we ever get lost in the black hole we can find each other's lights and be drawn to each other's warmth and this fire will never be extinguished. Like wildfire, we'll let it spread, share it with our family, our children, our friends. This someday life will one day be in my hands because I've found a sturdy balance and stopped stumbling and instead learned. Even when life hurts there are worse things than being burned.
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 12:57 AM UTC
We sat anxious and low
in your bedroom cupboard
beleaguered by hollow briefcases
and stifling musty winter clothes.
Holding our cigarettes like a crucifix
hunched over the ashtray
basking in the lonely timid light
you yanked into life
with the tug of a frail string.
I was ready to speak existentially
ready to be immortalized
by the blinding flash of the ancient pictor
black and white
candid but purposeful.
Locked into my eyes
lingering in their intensity
my artistic mystery.
I was suddenly pulled from my disillusionment
as my wishful banter was silenced
by your stern hush
preferring a whisper so your
parents didn't hear.
I watched you take a drag
like a glass of water
in the middle of the desert
so desperate, so agonizing.
I watched you shakily tap
tiny flakes of your soul
into the ashtray
your eyes distant, mournful.
It was irreversible;
my childlike fantasy
of aesthetic in the smoke
on my breath--
not from frigid temperatures
but adolescent guilty pleasures
coveted forbidden treasures--
to turn into the ashes
I watched my friend flick
routinely into the tray.
"This is not James Dean," I realized.
This is not somber-eyed bedecked
in worn leather jacket
leaning against a cool brick wall.
"Neither is this 'A Hard Day's Night.'"
This is not Ringo smiling amiably
shaking his head with cigarette
bouncing and dainty on his lips.
This is huddled in my best friend's
cramped cupboard
watching him surrender himself
to a caustic lord who scorches his life
away
in every drag that burns between
his cracking lips
in every ash flicked from
his shaking fingers.
I watched the smoke envelop his weary body
I watched the ashes eulogize his fading spirit
I watched him bid farewell with his tired eyes
I watched him disappear.
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 1:41 AM UTC
Lay me low
beside myself
tonight
Feeling high
existentially
inside
Drunken emotions
sovereignty
and loneliness
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 3:58 PM UTC
owls pick clover leaves so that their disorders are detected, remarkable
power of being, peripheral parts of their existence, satiric reality
quotidian and cynical, disorders represent internal struggles, passive
owls' reductive and holistic approaches to heavy squalls ships madly
run into, ships shaken in confusion, captains gone, crew members
thrown into the sea, owls recognise a woman does not have anything but avid
interest in men, her husbands offending each other, a pervasive pattern
of dysregulation making life doubtful than uneasy, a commitment
to passionate detachment dependent on innocent identity
impossible, nothing is possible because owls' holy life is precisely
mapped out, grave consequences of sanctification and glorification, mythic
characters not remembered only because of their relation to dead
figures in Orpheus' old legend, speaking about a Jew sacrificed
at Auschwitz, events revealed with overtones existentially psychic
Mar 12, 2021
Mar 12, 2021 at 5:24 PM UTC
An old dull silver tray bought from the thrift store last polished never
Sits between us, holding a half emptied handle of rye, two rock glasses
Adjunct ice bucket and a handful of spansules all neatly lined up in a row
Like candy for the taking
Too late
Existentially snuffed out
'Yes' I thought, there's a good start
But existentialism is so boooooring dear,
such a dry, ****** passe affair, pedantic really
She groans out her words elongated like some big queen of England
Sitting on her royal *** smoking from a long black cigarette holder
I pull her towards me roughly slipping quickly into thick, thickening
Newfound (land) accents
"Listen here missy, you're no Audrey Hepburn"
Brashly kissing bright blooming vermillion lips
"And you're no John Kennedy"
Playing dress up S&M; cosplay games de la haute societe
Cruel broken bank account pauvrete down and out facade
Tho this is neither Paris nor London
Nor do we find any satisfaction in our destitution
I am not a plongeur et vous,
Vous etes rien qu'un petit ami du nuit
"I'm not your *****
All part of the act
Or so I'm told
We've forgotten who we really are behind these vaudeville masks
The world less lucid, less clear, receding gently tho greatly
Day by lurid day
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 9:44 PM UTC
Once, an old friend asked me; what would my soul look like, if others could see it?
"A bug," I replied.
To crickets, the mantis is terror incarnate--a fierce behemoth, with knives for hands and without mercy. It is to be respected and feared, it is mighty and dignified.
To a human? A mantis is...
"A bug."
It is the debris among the mud between the treads of your sneakers. It is the gross infatuation, the scientific fascination--it is weak. It is small. It is inconsequential.
I yearn for a life of primitive needs and void of wants.
I yearn for the mantis, seeking only to destroy enough to line his stomach, all in a day's work, back to the safe spot where the "bigger and badder" can't reach you.
Life would be eat, sleep, repeat,
and I detest my self-awareness. I'd rather fail the simple life of a mantis and die without need of fulfillment,
Than to realize I'll no sooner discover what "fulfillment" is to myself than reach it--and to be torturously aware of that,
So very, very, existentially aware.
"My soul would look like a bug."
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 5:58 AM UTC
"All of us beings"
Believing we're free
Have We?
Could We?
Been tricked or deceived?
We boldly live our lives
And somehow we believe
That we understand the path
Upon this existential sea
But wisdom dictates different
Nothing can last forever
Especially at this rate
Where nothings getting better
+
Jan 22, 2019
Jan 22, 2019 at 6:27 AM UTC