Without Struggle

Essence is everything.

Essence is every thing you say?

Essence is all that is and was-

But all that has ever been and will one day-

It is all in all a cloud of dust

But if it is truly all what about that that isn’t?

The space between the smoke?

The aroundness where it isn’t

Well it precisely is-

No, do not tell me it is aroundness,-

That would not be what I’m getting at

Then what is it?

Watts said it is the nothingness which keeps it all up

So it is?

But that is not it either, and I have lost it.

Was it ever there?

That! That is it.

Was it ever there?

One day that will not be even a question, there will be no knowledge of it

So?

So the essence is what really makes the difference.

So it does.

The abstract meaning of it makes it what it is subjectively in the mind and soul of him.

And a pen cap can do this.

Well, of course yes and no.

Yes and no?

And the subjective is what matters, no one can really look at the objective. It’s too much.

Too much?

Yes, we cannot no enough.

How does that effect how we see?

Because everything, whether you know or not, is translated abstractly to the subjective. The subjective is just a piece. 

A piece of the objective, is it? I think I’m starting to see.

No, but it isn’t, there is a million ways to go from here, but I’ve lost mine. Again. It is irretrievable.

Oh, well.

Until next time I suppose. Another slightly grotesque piece may be furnished. We may continue this if it is chosen to be. 

We might, well. Well where are you headed? I’m off to my house to ponder, maybe I will reach the all and all in some casual thought on my rocker.

I’m headed that way too, but actively. It will grow on you. Mt. Olympus seems almost within reach at moments, but infinite is a mighty hard thing to chase. 

    I sometimes accept sin. I think it is sometimes impossible to get out of. I’m helpless against the thought hat when no one is looking, everybody takes a little for themselves. I see it in everyone and myself. It looks like everyone is trying, but behind the scenes they all give up. They all stand on their tip-toes then take a rest when hidden. Then, when duty calls, they shut out the devil on their shoulder fearfully, and hide any evidence that he was there. No one is above it, and that almost makes it alright. It will last as long as the option is there, and it is a vain attempt to stop. It simply is, and most certainly always has and always will be. And that depresses a bit too. You can’t escape no matter how hard you try, because eventually you will stop trying. 

    Can we not lay in the grass together? Can we not already know eachothers thoughts? Can we not skip the elementary salutatory greetings and meetings? Why, can we not see, in eachother’s eyes, what we both want and need. Clearly you can see what I see, or else I would not see your mind in bliss just behind those eyes. But, oh how, how can you do that with your eyes? How you twist my scrap iron heart into a more lovely shape with just a glance you give a second with your eyes. Is it a beautiful sirens tempest trick you learned behind the scenes? Have you learned to manipulate a mans heart, rather these looks be more honest? I’d rather they be more honest, learning to give similar looks might be too much to learn again, let them be honest and natural. But, is all this some tempest trick again; have you lured me more than I thought into thoughts so obsessive and digressive? Have you fooled me, many a man too? Lured us into only wanting you? Hooked us into going to look for only you? A good spell you cast about, making  men lie to themselves so. Making us believe in what we will with such a glance, having powers even over iron clam hearts. Those that didn’t know what love is now know as you pass by rosily. You look fragrant as a whole hedge of roses in full bloom, and as pure as them all white. You move enchantingly as a fairy, I swear, you move us all to such despair. Just for fun, I suppose, but don’t believe.

    I was hoping some of you can give me some new bands to listen to.

Whatever you think I would like, or whatever you like.

No metalcore.

I’m already sort of covered on metal for a friend, getting into it more, but if you want to share you can.

    I am especially in the mood for something intense and feely. But I generally can’t like overly sappy acoustic slowsongs. 

Anybody who considers themselves a writer or likes to write or writes intensely I am looking at you, not that I know why.

    Desperation can be nice. A desperate run to escape failure, knocking things down in their path, breathing and crying a little, wild eyed and unbalanced. Seeing some desperation in art sounds nice. Some hit the same note I sing, and it makes me want us to scream from there. But a desperate run is good to watch. And if it is in vain. it can be better. When a wounded animal is caught after a short run by a large predator, hurt and gutterally screaming. Sounds being emitted from its face and deeper, sorrowful and whiny. It’s eyes painful and feet stupidly fumbling around as it tries to weakly paw away from the clutches of it’s killer. The last few moments full of hell as there is no desperation, just hellish pain that is impossible to escape. Too weak to fight, or crawl. Just there being devoured as they sit and have nothing to reflect upon. No higher struggle. There is nothing but mortal pain in the last few moments; nothing but the terminal pain of the wounds that hurt so that they make you weak and everything is sort of dazed and clumsy and pain. And so they sit on as the minute time elapses achingly slow and death isn’t as fast as they sort of wish, second to the wish of restoring life. 

    Familiarity can be painful. I fear that I am a bitter young man, and fear too, that I may grow a into bitter old one. The possibility makes me bitter. The bitterness I see in myself gives me shivers at the resemblance of t he bitterness I see in another. It all makes me quiver and I can’t make it stop, so for now I do what I have been, and run fast as I can in a direction and keep all of it downplayed. My emotions have nothing to go into, except writing, but I have yet to put my emotions into somebody, and that’s what I feel I need. And that makes me bitter, too. And to think of my cowardice, and procrastination at confessing to A makes me bitter, and angry. I’m frustrated, and feel an old familiar frustration that I have had since childhood, since I could not get the square peg into the round hole. It all doesn’t work, I don’t work. No one to blame but myself, even with the reasonable excuses. If they were told, they would say I should have found help as soon as it happened. But I didn’t do that, and I still was young. Who can blame a near child? I was there, and I felt I shouldn’t, at the time, what does that all mean? Does that mean I am innocent, a victim? Do I have a free pass of responsibility? I better not act that way. A second opinion is something of use, or somebody to put my emotions into. To see where I stand, to see what is in front of me. I can’t open my eyes I can’t see through my lids I think if someone sees it might go wrong very quickly. But in walking blindly it all goes wrong very slowly.

4 notes