Saturday, May 21, 2011
I will look a pageless blank.
Change will emerge in their churning stomachs.
You owe me.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
When can we indisputably see one poisoned mollusk in the dissipated sea?
Thin water under a hazy sky is responsible for turning my lips and eyelids into the color of aged whine.
I have woken up the bay of a dead man's blistered memory.
Let us put these misleading hopes and fictitious chances to sleep.
Take away their kerosene lanterns. They are cemented in their own secrets.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Everyone is tired.
In public school we are supposed to be working our way up society's high ladder. Trying to reach a respectable education even if it costs more than what we are worth to attend college. It's like some goals are forced upon us or planted in our mind. But I feel as if we have only the fate of Sisyphus. He pushes the boulder up the hill only to watch it roll down and then he pushes it up again. Perhaps there is a man at the top of this hill that pushes the boulder down for his own benefit, and for the cruel entertainment of watching someone struggle; However this process is known to be repeated as a punishment for Sisyphus. It is a strenuous task, but it never ends.
People work for companies that have some man with the upper hand. We go to work every day that it is required, only to come home and know that we will work again tomorrow. However the small details of the day keep us distracted from the bigger questions that we ask in our spare time. The special feeling from a stranger's smile, the weather, the jokes shared between friends. These details of our day are distractions. When they are taken for granted the questions seep through the cracks of our some what twisted imagination. We question any creator. We question our purpose. We question the scar we shall leave on this world. We question what will happen after we are gone. Only when we lose track of the small details does the worker's repetition become overbearing.
What would happen if everyone stopped working for a system and lived primitive instead.
I was once told by a girl who frowned at my lack of faith in god that religion--Christianity in her opinion gave life meaning and hope. That it gave all the reasons to live. But I can see no sense in living. I don't consider myself suicidal, but I have thought about it many times. I have only come to the conclusion that suicide is nature's way of ridding itself of the weak. I believe there was less suicide when people were uncivilized. I believe this because people were living to survive, not living for the economy to survive. Those who didn't work for their own survival couldn't rely on society all the time, although I'm sure they could sometimes.
I feel trapped by any maudlin feelings, and if I could change my race and way of life I would be something like a forest dweller in the Amazon or a Nordic Sami. I long to experience the way of life my ancestors did. Jack London might have felt this way when he wrote The Call of the Wild. I did not enjoy that story, but I feel my own calling to live freely away from a superficial society where the commoners push their own heavy boulders up a hill only to watch it roll down as the powerful man at the top of the hill grows wealthier.
I feel trapped by the maudlin expressions of our time and as the street people cringe it is made clear that there is no voice in the sky. Our minds are what we get comfort from and put heartache in. It is unnerving that even the memories we don't recall are a part of us forever. If I could get away I would have a more dignified relationship with nature. My work would benefit only me. I would be free from my distractions and experience new ones. I would be free.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Fallible and unkown?
I think I would like to know.
But no one will ever know.
Because when you are in the middle you are stranded.
And all you want to do is get away.
We don't really care about the weather.
We live for small talk.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Their minds will not be racing at that certain time of the day
Light is flat, the clouds are gray among smoke
There is a cut throat in the mountains
there is sorrow in the leaves
There is realization
It is as strong as change is eternal
These flat winged eagles with beady eyes
these broken secrets, these forgotten promises