Jackals in the Oasis

It is difficult writing something worth reading, yet alone expecting another individual to care to read it.

I feel this effect ever so often, even as a writer, I’ve come to care not for how I write nor what I write, but rather focus on allowing whatever must be said, to flood out, if someone cares to read my descent into madness, so be it, if not, well then at the very least I will have been able to describe a thought of mine into a digital transcription.

Alas attaining immortality and leaving a legacy behind so that I can face the inescapable consequence of my own mortality somewhat more courageously each and every day.

Certainly, that is the truth, for the blobs of blog that are expelled from my consciousness onto the collective charcuterie board for everyone to nibble upon bare absolutely no gravity upon the weight in which we as a species find ourselves pressed underneath.

Alas, what the fuck is really going on?

Socrates asked that question, I can imagine.

And, here we are, ever so modern and wise, and probably further than the truth than ever before, in fact, we are so far from the truth, which is apparently whatever you happen to believe it is, that we are no longer within a single narrative, but in a multitude of coinciding plots that seemingly possess the agenda of completely and utterly making us all the more confused in regards to what the fuck is really going on to begin with.

Certainly, the simple matter of the fact is that we are driven to understand the experience before us, on a micro and macro scale, on an individual scale as the story coincides with that of the collective, a sub plot within the plot.

And this sub plot of mine, this story within a story, well it simply doesn’t matter all that much, nor does yours, nor does any of ours entirely, that is until, we ourselves make it so.

Indeed, that seems to be the dichotomy that directly affects humanity each and every day on a level that is plaguing us not only emotionally and physically but also spiritually.

Why is that, for we all breathe but do we truly see, we all talk but do we really speak, we all cry but do we really bleed, indeed this ever so evaporating quality that is beckoning exaltation and release.

For it seems we have been harnessed, bound and torn asunder, under the pretense of safety and comfort, allowing those of another to be dragged far under, as long as it means we can go home to our lover.

I feel it deep in my heart, hell, so too did my mother, and I can see it in the eyes of my brother and the faint whisper at the end of a long day from my father.

It’s a wound that is bleeding, an animate force that must be made manifest so that it may begin its grieving, it’s the knowledge of forces left unconcious for generations to come and that is misleading.

It’s the suffering of the newborn whose mothers last breath stopped as she drew her first, it’s my brother cold and alone, hungry and plagued with thirst, while I stare at a full plate for what it’s worth, it’s the feeling of feeling empty and alone, as though you have already died, right before you are held close and told you have always been loved and were never forlorn.

It’s this pulse, this energetic attraction, this verbal dance intricately interwoven into the expanse of the illusion of time, as the stars skip 13 beats if only to at last coincide with the rising of the full moon in time to bring birth to a truth that was lost in our youth.

For more and more each and every day it seems we are denied what it means to live, love and choose.

We are losing what it means to feel connected and free, unafraid of the pain and misery that lingers around each and every corner through the great unknown of possibility.

And that is vain, that should be denied, we are one, certainly, within a grand mosaic picture, but allow me to point out a certain fixture, you, the perfect situated mixture.

Hidden indeed, within the collective of infinity, so it matters not, for we are ever so minuscule within the confines of mortal humanity.

Yet we have the chance and the opportunity to breathe and sing freely, a song that perfectly describes this very aspect of our own micro within the macro of humanity.

And that must be embraced and fully unleashed!

It must never be tamed nor may it be put to sleep.

For if all we possess is this moment, ever so passively, then at the very least we may invoke the blessing of life indefinitely.

For it is within this moment that you and I both possess the opportunity, to alter the story however we believe it to be, perception is key, understand that perseverance leads to serenity, an ending we can be proud to have at long last reached.

Sending you Light through Love,

B

Categories creative writing, Philosophy, writerTags , , ,

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