It’s
ruthless psychology or something alien where dynamics are re-shackled; this
demanded attentiveness or this heightened awareness or this super-sensitivity;
where reality is slanted and pains are shared but it seems but the same pickle;
such sparkling commiseration or so cautious it seems fabricated where one is
pulling and even yanking cement; to exact pavement to intrude at will
while needing undivided participation; this fear of being alone those roses too
soon to die plus moods are perpendicular. We wrestle with classism this box
assessing our worth while we classify people daily. This shaky twig this spasm
button at ease to discount another person; these interior photos or those
rioting resentments while angered around people that are this or that:
nurturing our caskets or bleeding our wells at this constant approach
towards becoming the centerpiece. This hard run this difficult altruism where
we can’t share those prizes. I often speak to this mirror where some people are
distinctively disliked and I wonder one—Am I tripping? and two—Is something
taking place in me that is unresolved? Those untalkative glitches as they
control patterns where one in uninformed; those graveyard behaviors while
becoming high-minded where in reality one can’t stand to be around himself. (I
certainly wish to be a theologian, but I can’t endure the church-life, but is
this a real crisis and, moreover, is this the doing of the church?) (I have a
hard time with full on covertness and I cringe at blatant manipulation, but
isn’t these things part of our defense mechanisms?) I dream of something honest
and free where everything is copacetic while loyalties are like iron skies;
this child in me if be it I can summons his heart or moreover if time remains
building something good. Our headstone sentences or our identities
through others where one was once an extraordinary miracle; those days living
vignettes or becoming a sestina at some terrific advocation—lost in
manifestations and holy a charm or some ecstatic sentient leprechaun. I do
exaggerate. I sing of something requiring childhood training. While most of our
greater souls were reading Latin by the age of seven. I sound quite immature
debating this understanding or too timid to deal with ruthless psychology—but
the heart of souls is goodness despite this deficit in humankind
insomuch as we desire perfection for our souls and children. (Not many
premediate harm for young lives and where this is presented, we eradicate the
weed while many are elated to see their newborn son or daughter). It becomes obvious
that we desire an untainted field where both ourselves and children may
flourish and remain deprived of dysfunctional behaviors: this old delinquent or
this trained soul and thereby this person understanding something with clarity.
It is not our intention to face deception, but if this becomes the practice, we
must accept its swiftness—its presence—its facial manifestation.
I’ve
nested in episodes where ruthless psychology was brilliant while one is nodding
for the author to let it rest; but what becomes our mission once exposed to
appropriateness in a world growing fastly towards negative behaviors—this force
in pains this dying angelica or our souls sensing deep incompleteness in our
seeds;--more importantly, if a child is deeply wayward, or an adult is
extremely displaced, where if any does the cause lay? I realize anomalies in
this genetic atmosphere but such is often a rare principle. In many cases drugs
and behaviors and osmosis characteristics are much to investigate. But
something probes the writer this dear inquiry by which we need to know about
curtailing, with success, those unsocial behaviors. Would an example of Excellence
do it—Would convergence be the cure, or therapy or academia—Or something
deeper, this genetic-knit urging and pushing a person towards the arête? It
reveals itself as a mystery where we must understand the possibility of being
too far by deviance!
