By the face to
have without a face, or sound without a voice, some cruel nature in society.
Like a party void of margaritas, a city without a stage, a woman without a
leprechaun—no offense intended. Society is sensitive. It was more resilient during
days of old. Philosophers tore into ignorance, quite brilliantly, designating
the wise from the unwise—to put it mildly. I met wisdom on her tongue, in her
gaze, it her absence, while present. She didn’t take a position. She was timid
in some sense; a false timidity, a feigned nonchalance, a reason, more
profound, for remaining silent: a quick wit, noted, much notoriety with deceit,
fluid in several languages. One must be skilled in music, art, an instrument,
mathematics, geology, and the list just becomes embarrassing. How have I enhanced,
from sickness to healing, from nothingness to somethingness in being?
When growth is
rapid, the critic appears. He or she becomes analytical, zeroing in on parts
and pieces of a given debate—the one becomes quite difficult to reach, and
suddenly, easy to entertain. One seems to need miracles, albeit, somewhat—anti-metaphysical,
trudging through grime and marsh, deciding where each reality fits. Simple
questions are praised and ironically disdained. One desires deepness of thought—from
those deemed qualified, as most find reasons to distrust a given author—we might
wonder if our reasons are quite self-serving. Another delicate topic. The
narrator must be mindful, or land on extraordinary favor.
The soul is
missing something. It has most things. It is always relying on what is missing
to define it and how it lives. The struggle becomes existence. The riches
become existence. Opposites, at once, intrigue and disgust each other. In
secret, we need something mysterious; and in private, we need something solid,
reliable, never squirming away from doing right in our eyes. To look over at
another human and ask: “Are you proud of me?”
It is amazing what
we desire from one another: a delicate air, a firm insistence, with room to
vacillate, to show discontent, to wrestle over expressions. One person is a
filler; another is life; another, one can’t explain, it just seems to fit, or
it is necessary, in some gray meaning of the expression.
Famous thoughts on
one hand, concentrated on freedom, and on the other hand, focus was, and is,
concentrated on ethics. We have found some inalienable rights, so, in keeping
with deduction, it is impossible to say that all men are equal, and perpetuate
the damnation of certain peoples. Most accept this as truth—nevertheless, most
are an arm’s distance from the ramifications, the divisions, the
inconsistencies, the underpinning and unspoken realities, escaping the ideal.
Many spaces a man
asserted—many empty spaces—meant for occupying, I presume. Those insufferable
spaces—just sitting in invisibility, or taunting by visibility, or silent,
impassive, needing not one’s absence, nor presence. Admittedly, it must mean so
little. Deliberately, one makes it mean so much.
