To speak of spirit is speculation, albeit, a symbol, filled with meaning and designation. In my hunger for the symbol, in my thirst for immortality, I die partway, forbidden my greatest craving. (The present warfare has been long. I wonder what I’m telling myself to get through it.) Hitherto, I try to imagine a person’s wound. In realizing my own, I know souls carry existentialism. We leave alone what probes us the most. Such inclusiveness, as opposed to exclusivity, amazed by the horizon. I see an impasse—in rationalizing, I sense it loses its opalescence. I find, at some point, we intentionally do x, or we expectantly do y. We’re often let off the hook. Life is confusing that way. After a while, new titles slip into consciousness—the way each learns to live. (A man ostracized his son. Years later, his son was doing well. The father sought the son out. The son desired a father. And was willing to assist the father financially. The father wasn’t merely pleased by that, he had to deplete the son of his pride. He berated the son. The son tried harder. Neither quite could see what was taking place. This happens, time and again.) In understanding spirit, we see competing end points, a village of acts upon a spectrum, never quite with certainty—a long held dispute. We try to tie knots of clarity. In feeling a certain way. Wondering why it moves this way. To fathom parts and miss chunks. It’s either too much, or it represents life, the norms. I shift perspectives, listening to gripes, suffocated in parts by philosophy. Just watched by spirit. Just read by spirit. In what it symbolizes. In pure speculation. Life is peculiar when freedoms are denied. I imagine freedom of spirit, independence of spirit, even able to include others by spirit. (One qualm comes with knowing how spirit entered, a cozen entrance; to then empathize with spirit, a quiet oddity of souls; each observation comes with struggle—it’s quite mysterious how it all operates—one undergoes an analysis of spirits … something suspect … albeit, a form of dialogue. Each person lives in a box: sharing boxes, trying to break free of boxes: quite possibly—centered in perception … which denies full on accountability in all the negotiations with spirit.) I go through self-talk, attempting to see exactly as things are, as opposed to listening to my feelings. I fail each time, getting closer, finding a necessity to pardon acts—for the sake of balancing out inside. People, self – included, we’re strict with ourselves, while having a time with holding ourselves accountable. It’s troubling on one hand, we never let up on ourselves, on the other hand, we’re too quick to dismiss our certain faults. Spirit is unique in this sense, some pains are with us, others, by our initiatives, are bypassed. I try to see, thus, to feel, even when end points are inordinate. This, too, surprises at times. And we seem to operate off cues. Some induced by others, many seduced by an interior mirror. We also mourn the living. We mourn our thoughts. This is spirit. It gravitates towards mourning. What seems too powerful to carry, the soul attempts to discard, often unaware of the subconscious. I select mythos, spirit-fire, even though it’s speculation. Spirit gives life. Last in line. First given to sacrifice. Tales were told. We call fables comfort food. In fact, those rare creatures were destined to think differently. The penultimate distinction is seen in responses. It doesn’t explain why some are mourning their responsibility and others aren’t. The ideal calls deviation a behavioral malfunction. The ideal is often unsubstantiated; it just seems better than other options. Spirit determines its necessities. Spirit lives contrition.
