In the neat nooks of anguish or
sadness or the like, most behave according to structure; order is applied to
sorrow, or it isn’t terribly bad, we doubt that it’s non-existent. The
flowers are fragrant, the starlings
are wonderful, with more neat emotion bubbling over. Some elements are
apparent, much more than I realize; in the multitude of
composition, buttons are pressed,
pushed—in the goodness of survival, affectation is taking place—on an ungiven
level; the weakness of the poet, the strength in the
reader, the provocation of hearts.
It can’t just be; it can’t just breathe; and it can’t just move forward—this is
not how things operate: there’s resistance … yet, souls are
with appreciation, to notice a
need, to move with stealth: more is taking place inside—than is taking place in
the world: this is true, and this is false, it depends on the chaos of
the mind in pictures. I have understood certain reality—the fact
when everything is changing, some remain similar; the understanding when
nothing is new, a sense
of anger comes through. There’s
nothing to be said, most things have been done, one great newness is—the arrangement
of sentences and words—while I see something
in the meadows: a jaguar sipping
water, a lemur watching, a chameleon outwitting the forest. Pure rich
environment—no need for provocation—with prose and poetry comes
aches and deliberation: to believe
in self, this is a grand adventure; to faith inside, to believe in one’s
proclivities, mental acumen, this is heart touching; even to imagine the
other person’s motives, the milk in
honey, the bulwark on high, the many snares casted, the many admirations
ignored, the sheer indignation with one born to enhance what
is present. The fable is the story. It, life, people,
are not unnoticed. Paradise looks
different to people: for one, its scientific findings; for another, it’s beautiful
men or
women; for another, its riches, and
the list goes on until the end of time.
it will continue until it desists. It never plays out differently. It
continues until it has run its
course, until it is appeased, or
some other element. The pain of the
matter is—the becoming, thoughts shifting perception, self-examination, the
wondering of souls; to see
something unbecoming, with most of
life, to decipher what the big ado is about, while many more are on the
trail. One doesn’t win this way. One
is seen first—this way.
Motives become important. Most need
to know the why behind motivations. In participating, one becomes suspicious. In
being considered smart, a soul, (I hate to say
it), becomes a toy, a project, some
element to entertain with. In
history, many have become legendary, iconic writers, with so much to give; one
reads them, becomes parts
of them, determines through them—where
one fits in society. In the scope of
the chase, some notice, some applaud, some become creative. In the chase of the
immortals, one learns about his mortality.
In paving over deeds, if realistic, one sees where he is most vulnerable. In
this lies one great truth, each person is in the same
wavelength. Greenness is one area, left to the mercy
of the world in other areas, responsible in certain spaces—and asked by society
to participate in the zeitgeist—the
all-ness of existence, the inner
compass, the map that listens—as it remains with sameness. To ponder infrastructure, to understand souls,
to continue to grow.
