Here I stand, 5 feet and 10 inches above the ground that I hardly find the effort to pull myself up from, I will be buried six feet below it at some point which is further from it than I in life will become, and even then I will be horizontal, succumbing to that ever lingering notion that is the prospect of death, it has etched and molded myself from myself till soon there will be nothing left, but a statue of the stature of a man that came before, to his journals and the night his life he did outpour and that when lay calmly in the coffin of his custom he will fret no more.
But that was him, his mind ever fixed on what will be and what has been so he hardly ever saw what is, but he knows that and then reflects and fears to do it in future and thus so the pattern exists.
This is never what he thought reality was, felt so certain in knowledge and knowing because he felt for a time it gave him some control,
unknowing that by tearing down ideas that make others whole, he was unpiecing the puzzle that made up his sad and shallow soul.
So foul the thought became that he was the creator of his own disdain that he bound himself in pain, built a greenhouse of shame for himself
pane by pane to bathe in the glow of all he did and could ever know, till it burned him and wilted to roots he needed to grow.
But as if by some gorgons curse what makes it worse is not that he died, but that he still persists, the panes he built reflecting that he exists,
with this body and face he was born with, and acts as a 42inch screen for him to watch himself live. If you could call it living, seeking out repeat prescriptions of poison forfilling and willing for them to change some part of the life he saw, but they did and do nothing less and nothing more than to beg to be used again, like a poorly chosen friend they are the function of forming our fortune and then bringing the fortunes end.
It all depends on what we think life is in end, is it a test or joke? Are we the echos of a voice that noone spoke? Is there even a reason? Would we even find that pleasing? To know that we were created by something that also created death and pain like they were teasing us with our own existence? Or is it like the seasons that as we mark one
changing to the next, we're so vexed that we don't see that none of the systems are changing there is no beginning or an end as there is with books? We're so perplexed by our own consciousness and the changing of years and months and days that we're stupid enough to pick up a newspaper and believe what ever the first page says.
We take everything at face value if we're smart enough to be dumb, because look to hard beneath the mask and the magic is then undone. We think we've won by meriting our actions as creating some change, but the positions on a chessboard all exist no matter how much we rearrange. Whats strange is that none of the things we give meaning to matter, because really nothing matters, and it doesn't matter that nothing matters, the matter we're all made of can be deconstructed into energy and the energy of the universe can be woven into any
form but it does nothing to deform the fact that we are here, standing on the ground that is made up of the same stuff as us, from the energy of the universe that made stars that lie above us. And we could argue about and chicken and an egg from the beginning of the universe until there is nothing left but the ground that I stand on has never had a crisis of confidence it just is. I stand and stomp and slide all over it my entire life and it has never given a ****, and hell maybe this metaphor isn't worth it or even its too derivative, but the purpose of my life I have come to live with, is that this is the life I have had to begin with. There isn't a single truly perfect thing in the universe and purpose is insignificant compared to living it.
I don't know if I'll find or need another to take my hand, I don't know if I'll ever bow to a gods command, I don't know why there are more stars than grains of sand , but all I do know is here I am, and until that is no longer true, here I stand.
3am is a bad time for thoughts but a good time for poetry
