CrabbyPatty
20th October 2012, 07:53
There is no point living on Earth when you constantly dwell in the stars. Thus, the focus of my attention has been the here and now. After all, how am I to afford the entire population of the planet one positive meditation, when I struggle to alleviate the pain and harsh reality of my own life with a simple breath? The pressure to just 'be' has become so great.
It is time for some honesty. I grow tired of others. My nature as an empath opens their minds and feelings to my perceptions, and I am resentful that they do not understand me in the same fashion, and of those who possess some semblance of understanding, of the same ability or affliction—I resent them too, because I recognize their own inability to afford me a level of attention and care that can satisfy me.
I am turned inward. I am being pushed inward into the most umbral examination of myself that I have ever endured, and the pit is filled with a menacing gravity, black and bottomless. It is a chasm that lurks behind the curtains of every moment of positivity I seem to be able to experience or muster from my own force of will, as though it will, at any moment, steal across the horizon of my mind and corrupt me from within and throughout.
I do not dare speak of what another should do, what faith they should acquire or abandon, what mantra they should take on, what mantle of morality they should subscribe to. I don't speak anymore of angels, orbs, devils, shades, ufos, interdimensionals, cosmic consciousnae, akashic records, shamans, mushrooms, yogic prana, or breatharianism, veganism, reptilians, andromedans, sacred geometry, zero point energy, hyperdimensional tortion physics, Michaelangelo, Leonardo Da Vinci, or Nikola Tesla, the Occupy Wallstreeters, the people of the past who may once made a difference.
I fear our world is too complex for one person to legitimately enunciate the egotistic position of making a difference. Individuality is disappearing into the maelstrom. The 'ologies' are incomplete and incongruent with what I feel and see, and the 'isms' are corrupt and plagued with rot, futility, and the ultimate fallacy of the human mind and its flirtations with the humorous irony that systemic categorization of any kind constitutes ideologies that benefit us. Ideologies themselves are a commodity, and their newness harkens a mass of slavering minions who pile upon them like starving madmen stacked like dominoes in a bread line. In my mind I see pure chaos, a daunting tower of self-righteous madness whose summit we are propelled toward, a climb of cataclysmia, where there are no answers, only a cold grave wind, gray skies and the pricetag of total responsibility.
In my self I know the same darkness in those who ruin the world. I know that I ruin the world, with my participation, with my cultural calibration. The only thing missing from my tools is the “power” and the “push.” The push will bring you more power, and the power will push your further over the edge. I see people gassing themselves into the self-deluded hilarity that they are any different from the bankers, the ceo's, presidents and other publicly elected mass-ignoramuses. They coalesce into ever more self-compromising social marriages, agreeing their esoteric canons to be a better way of life, but they have murdered more under the sheltering wing of consumption, competition, and arrogance than the rich white men could ever dream of accomplishing with the strokes of their 24 karat gold pens.
I cannot think of the human race's struggle; I have not the room for it. I have not the breath and tears for it. I struggle to mine one glimmer of concern from that mount of apathy when I, in each second of consideration, cannot breathe and shed the kind of emotion that a soulful relief requires, because when I look in the mirror I see something I struggle so fiercely each day to just take some damn responsibility for. I do not dare to proclaim the ability to so nonchalantly create light and love, as it were a simple exhale, for when I awake each morning with the obliterating reality that I don't know who I am or why I am here, that what I think I know is just a static and temporary thing, a foolishness, that the answer may never be found in this life or the next—that is the task to be reconciled, that is the truth I am yet to understand. It is a truth I am growing into, a state in which I am learning to find a new acceptance of myself. I dare not belabor this transience, no matter the anguish that may be required to pass through it. I am not here to say it is hopeless; I am here to say nothing of your accord, only mine, and that I persist in 'being' because I do see something growing there, I do see something changing there, and that I'm doing my best, and that is my promise, my best.
I dream to learn all the intricacies of this darkness so that no part of it might escape responsibility and knowing. There is peace to be found, but it comes in a struggle all of its own, and I am learning in my own way, and that while I am completely open to sharing with you, I will never tell you what to do. My kindling will be piled high, and when engulfed by holy fire, my mind will be spellbound by a new creation, the phoenix that will rise and unleash a terrific cry out of this immolation. This mind is as a thunderous cerulean nimbus and it yearns to be curtailed by radiant beams of a sunset's soundless final light, and my heart yearns to warm in the hearing of a call, a familiar voice of myself that emanates from somewhere near the bottom to say very simply: what is, no longer is, and will no longer be, thus it is necessary now for new creation, new dreams, new horizons to cross in fanciful flight.
Do you dare to imagine a new world, do you dare be swept up like feathers caught in a hurricane of false inspiration, when you know so little of yourself, when you speak so vociferously of what others should know? To know who you are is to submerge in a pool of black, to inhale every murk and ire that emanates from your bones. I know that I must explore every terrible little thing inside and conquer it, before I can possibly hope to behoove myself to speak to another with the audacity that I have some idea of what might work, what might be good for them.
Fellow humans, sometimes you make it so difficult to care what happens to you, to hope for anything better for you. I go inside—deep, deep down inside, and I see the monster and understand why.
Learning to truly love and embrace that monster is something I'm still working on.
I just know that there is not point hoping to live in the stars, when you refuse to accept your dwelling on Earth.
It is time for some honesty. I grow tired of others. My nature as an empath opens their minds and feelings to my perceptions, and I am resentful that they do not understand me in the same fashion, and of those who possess some semblance of understanding, of the same ability or affliction—I resent them too, because I recognize their own inability to afford me a level of attention and care that can satisfy me.
I am turned inward. I am being pushed inward into the most umbral examination of myself that I have ever endured, and the pit is filled with a menacing gravity, black and bottomless. It is a chasm that lurks behind the curtains of every moment of positivity I seem to be able to experience or muster from my own force of will, as though it will, at any moment, steal across the horizon of my mind and corrupt me from within and throughout.
I do not dare speak of what another should do, what faith they should acquire or abandon, what mantra they should take on, what mantle of morality they should subscribe to. I don't speak anymore of angels, orbs, devils, shades, ufos, interdimensionals, cosmic consciousnae, akashic records, shamans, mushrooms, yogic prana, or breatharianism, veganism, reptilians, andromedans, sacred geometry, zero point energy, hyperdimensional tortion physics, Michaelangelo, Leonardo Da Vinci, or Nikola Tesla, the Occupy Wallstreeters, the people of the past who may once made a difference.
I fear our world is too complex for one person to legitimately enunciate the egotistic position of making a difference. Individuality is disappearing into the maelstrom. The 'ologies' are incomplete and incongruent with what I feel and see, and the 'isms' are corrupt and plagued with rot, futility, and the ultimate fallacy of the human mind and its flirtations with the humorous irony that systemic categorization of any kind constitutes ideologies that benefit us. Ideologies themselves are a commodity, and their newness harkens a mass of slavering minions who pile upon them like starving madmen stacked like dominoes in a bread line. In my mind I see pure chaos, a daunting tower of self-righteous madness whose summit we are propelled toward, a climb of cataclysmia, where there are no answers, only a cold grave wind, gray skies and the pricetag of total responsibility.
In my self I know the same darkness in those who ruin the world. I know that I ruin the world, with my participation, with my cultural calibration. The only thing missing from my tools is the “power” and the “push.” The push will bring you more power, and the power will push your further over the edge. I see people gassing themselves into the self-deluded hilarity that they are any different from the bankers, the ceo's, presidents and other publicly elected mass-ignoramuses. They coalesce into ever more self-compromising social marriages, agreeing their esoteric canons to be a better way of life, but they have murdered more under the sheltering wing of consumption, competition, and arrogance than the rich white men could ever dream of accomplishing with the strokes of their 24 karat gold pens.
I cannot think of the human race's struggle; I have not the room for it. I have not the breath and tears for it. I struggle to mine one glimmer of concern from that mount of apathy when I, in each second of consideration, cannot breathe and shed the kind of emotion that a soulful relief requires, because when I look in the mirror I see something I struggle so fiercely each day to just take some damn responsibility for. I do not dare to proclaim the ability to so nonchalantly create light and love, as it were a simple exhale, for when I awake each morning with the obliterating reality that I don't know who I am or why I am here, that what I think I know is just a static and temporary thing, a foolishness, that the answer may never be found in this life or the next—that is the task to be reconciled, that is the truth I am yet to understand. It is a truth I am growing into, a state in which I am learning to find a new acceptance of myself. I dare not belabor this transience, no matter the anguish that may be required to pass through it. I am not here to say it is hopeless; I am here to say nothing of your accord, only mine, and that I persist in 'being' because I do see something growing there, I do see something changing there, and that I'm doing my best, and that is my promise, my best.
I dream to learn all the intricacies of this darkness so that no part of it might escape responsibility and knowing. There is peace to be found, but it comes in a struggle all of its own, and I am learning in my own way, and that while I am completely open to sharing with you, I will never tell you what to do. My kindling will be piled high, and when engulfed by holy fire, my mind will be spellbound by a new creation, the phoenix that will rise and unleash a terrific cry out of this immolation. This mind is as a thunderous cerulean nimbus and it yearns to be curtailed by radiant beams of a sunset's soundless final light, and my heart yearns to warm in the hearing of a call, a familiar voice of myself that emanates from somewhere near the bottom to say very simply: what is, no longer is, and will no longer be, thus it is necessary now for new creation, new dreams, new horizons to cross in fanciful flight.
Do you dare to imagine a new world, do you dare be swept up like feathers caught in a hurricane of false inspiration, when you know so little of yourself, when you speak so vociferously of what others should know? To know who you are is to submerge in a pool of black, to inhale every murk and ire that emanates from your bones. I know that I must explore every terrible little thing inside and conquer it, before I can possibly hope to behoove myself to speak to another with the audacity that I have some idea of what might work, what might be good for them.
Fellow humans, sometimes you make it so difficult to care what happens to you, to hope for anything better for you. I go inside—deep, deep down inside, and I see the monster and understand why.
Learning to truly love and embrace that monster is something I'm still working on.
I just know that there is not point hoping to live in the stars, when you refuse to accept your dwelling on Earth.