A Wintery Evening.

20/09/2021

A wintery evening, the last in spring. We hope so anyway.

A full moon gibbons and wanes. But we can see it not.

The clouds hang drearily over the treetops. The wind suggests the clouds might pass over.

What a liar mother nature can be.

Saddened by the lack of control he has, he stamps and beeps and crunches his life away, unaware of the impending doom that was about to befall him. The beginning of it anyway.

Head low, fingers smattering, he listens for the slightest twings of sound. The apparatus must be perfectly calibrated. And his eyes, ears and nose were the best in the business. No room for error.

Drawing in all his might, he exerts control by rolling headfirst into the headwind that is his life. A smattering of daytimes and nighttimes and loneliness and dread, all part of the puzzle he was facing.

Pay attention they say. Pay attention to what your mind and body are communicating to you, they say. For what purpose exactly? To hear myself echo around the chamber of thoughts over and over? To spend time listening to problems long passed? The cries of unfulfilled dreams? The whispers of incongruence, and the murmurs of other people's lives, without any clear interpretation of such, fizzling around the bottle, swirling up into what only reflects its origin, and has no room for the interpretation of anything healthy. Anything natural. We are left with the stark hardened outline of an individual, steadfast by his complete abandonment of anything... anything.

He cranks and he whips, but the engine won't start. And even when it does, it churns and groans and provides greater energy and noise and fervent with which to suffer the alassed loss of normality. Now only a distant frivality.

Abandon. Surrender. Release your thinking mind from the maze and allow it to waft over and around and into and out of the great divide between this world and your own. The one in which you find yourself both hero and villain. An immortal villain. With macroeconomic and geopolitical consquences.

Perhaps it is with purpose. Not knowing however, leaves room for Schrodinger's cat, and like that disgruntled feline, we are both dead and alive. But just barely. We all know he isn't happy in that box in any case.

Cradles and robbery and diamond pearl stunners. All a distraction in the cruelty of the world that gives us the faculty to become great, then takes away every opportunity to achieve that potential. To even contemplate it with any significance. To even imagine and dream the possibility is an ineptitude. So many other things to be doing.

Darken and lighten the snow.

Teach me how. How to walk and talk and glow.

How to know what's right. What's right for you. What's right for me.

What's wrong with ourselves?

Up and down. Round and round.

We hope there is still room for us in that shake.

In those hearts.

In that wake.

There may be only one funeral. But let it be in unison. Let us mourn the loss of our childhood, our innocence, our forthrightness, our soul, and our humility. From great heights do fall monsters, and then hero's emerge. Betrayal. Frivolity. Perilousness. A darkened desire for a whole undecided swamp of feelings. An array of torn-up love. Ghosted acquaintances. Darkened looming prayers. A heavier caution weighs on the minds of those who have any sense left.

Where to from here? How can this be the way it plays out? Surely there is no salvation from here. We are all bereft, out at sea, with the dispassionate avant-garde cynicism borne out of the cloudiness of our times. An overarching sense that all is lost, and will never return.

For that is what we long for. The return of our comfort.

The absence of the shadow that follows us everywhere we go.

Heavier than the mask. But just as silencing.

Maddening screams beckon forth from the warped portal that spouts out of his face hole. The place where his mouth would be. Where his mask should be.

Waxing and waning, ebbing and flowing. We know now the difference.

One has a ripple. A murmur. A flash of experience and hope, and an echo of infinite new worlds borne out of each moment. Uplifting as it unfolds. Showing the natural way to endeavour through the stormy seas with a sense of dignity and well calibrated attunement.

Instead, there is the other way. A neoliberal, culturally divided, unified hate machine, seeking with virility to poison and rape our minds. A collection of senses and touches and toxicity and chemically infused releases, interspersed throughout your day, carefully attuned to your individual needs.

You can even take a selfie on your way down to the bottomless pit.

The clown returns all receipts.

Analog Devil