Thursday, October 6, 2016

Rampage of Words



My mind is blank, like a river bank dried up from a long lasting drought.  So I pout in its barren waste, wishing to taste the unique sense of creativity that replenishes its streams, turning the arid shore into magical dreams filled with splendid galore.  Alas, fruit fails to appear and I am stuck with decrepit thought that seems caught in a snare of negativity and stagnant lividity.  The surrounding vibrations are distracting and only further my frustrations as a writer.  While I seek for a brighter hour of the day, I am continuously cast into the dark abyss of dismay.  

I know what you’re thinking, that this poetic prose isn’t half bad.  That if I tweaked it a tad, I would fix the leak of energetic dissonance and hence flip the current coin on its head.  Well, I hate to tell you but I scratched off the tails side.  It is dead.  There is only one end to this coin and it abates my chances of guessing wrong.  For if I am both wrong and utterly without a flow, I may go away and never return, lest to see all my work burn before me in the fiery flames of antiquity.  

Becoming darker still, the sickly nature of uninspired work forced out inch by inch is a constipation of my spirit.  The goal has long been lost, as if tossed overboard and drowned in a sea of depression.  The lesson learned is that the deeper one goes, the darker it gets.  There are no lights at the bottom of these waters, just eerie sounds and vibration.  The strangled anticipation of someone coming to rescue the forgotten and never actually arriving.  

It can’t all be light and airy, as you can clearly see.  In order to be free, one must first be shackled. Bound tight with no place to go accept within.  This restriction is actually a blessing in disguise because the wise know that even if the coin is scratched, there are still two sides that may be hatched from the flip.  The chances are good, oftentimes in your favor, especially if you realize that coins are easy to find.  So, as I slowly emerge from the pits of ignorance, I come into compliance with a greater flow, sometimes called the Tao.  

The Tao is like a herd of spotted cows grazing in a pasture filled with the most luscious of grasses.  Farts rip from their asses, methane having been processed in each of the many stomachs they hold.  With this having unfolded, the emboldened fragrance lofts freely across the fresh fields until they reach your olfactory senses.  With this intense whiff of pastoral setting, you are taken back to the many times you have been on or near a farm.  This ties you to your roots as a human, since we were all gatherers of Gaia’s flowers at one point in our life.  Even if you only picked the dandelions for the sake of popping off the heads or rubbing your arms yellow, this act brought you immense pleasure as a child, as it would any wild creature with no real intent for the day aside from perhaps sneaking a snack from the cupboard when mother isn’t looking.  

You see, once one taps into the flow, there is no place to go but forward, for that is how the Tao works.  Like a stream of water, it passes onward into the unknown parts of the world.  It cannot be impeded for long, for as soft and abiding as water is, it is also the hardest substance on the planet.  It will cut through granite like a stick of TNT, terminating any obstacle that distracts its route to or from source.  The course is infinite, as it will first and preferably flow around a rock rather than through it.  

A working woman may scoop some into a barrel and make it stagnant for a short time.  Soon, though, it will quench the thirst of a laborer and will continue to flow in, out, and around.  Even in its stagnant procession of adventure, it still adheres to a sloshing movement that shifts with the confines of the wicker basket.  It was destined to be caught for a moment and it takes a break as something else carries it onward.  Nothing ever stops.  It continues in some way, whether you recognize it or not.  Perhaps it is just a thought to you that continues to permeate the deep caverns of your space or maybe it is something more…

The unabiding truth of our time is that we have run out of ways to rhyme the climb and descent of our experience.  Rather than delve deeply into this mystical world of chaotic energies and peaceful powers, we stand on the sidelines as onlookers, letting life rape us like dirty hookers in a drunken sprawl.  These words may offend, but do you not see them for what they are? They are mere letters that make up sounds and sounds that make meaning in your mind.  Look at them more closely and you’ll find only lines fixed in crisscross fashion splashed upon a page of infinite interpretation.  Your brain is what is offensive to you.  Why is that? We take some things too seriously and others too softly.  It is grotesque what we find acceptable and what we steer clear from.  Deplorable phrases are widely used without thought or hesitation.  What else do you want to experience? Is this all we are destined to limit ourselves to?  What else is there to be experienced?

I have only a few words in my vocabulary and can make many meanings from them.  When will I realize that they are the same words being passed around like a filthy disease?  They limit my understanding and concept of possibility.  They narrow the focus too much and fail to express what is really happening.  Even if I typed for a millennia, I couldn’t capture the grand banquet that is occurring in this very moment.  More happens in a moment than can ever be expressed, yet we feel bored and tired.  Our systems of thought have failed us, for we think too much and experience too little.  Speak too often and listen only to what we have to say.  When will we learn to shut up, to stop expressing, to slow down, and to immerse ourselves in the here and now?  This is an experience that can never be expressed.  It is the words that take away from the world.  This is why the world is failing and this is what the world wanted me to write.

 

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