the winding road

I'm really low right now. My life is wonderful. It's full of secrets and is as shallow as it gets. Nothing holds my hope and so it wanders. It is so sticky. Residue everywhere. Each thing hoped in once, each thing broken.

I miss a life I never had.

I remember it like I had it. I didn't.

I don't know why I torture myself. I wanted to remember what it was like maybe; what I was like.

What to do in the wake. I don't want to surf the waves, just drown me. Just let me go.

I have little passion. I have discipline and some desires... my passion has dried up, and not like how the tide runs away. No. Like how the Sahara expands, eating every green thing. Consuming by letting the subject possess nothing. A nothing that is like everything. A nothing that fakes its way, yet is realest.

Perturbed and angered. And not just cantankerous. Justifiably upset!! Justified by honesty alone.

There's lucidity in the experience. The experience of this. Sitting on a couch observing strange sensations making contact with this notion of self and it’s ends. Telos; ends. Self flowing through atoms (as we call them), having never seen them.. Observation of observation. Love is the soul's soul. What in common among us all except separation from the substrate? Envelop me and take me home. This is not where I can rest.

You think your perception is not also an abstraction? We're in a holding pattern. Wealth is of no use. Wisdom is itself deceptive. Reach into the cookie jar, it will turn out alright. Let the beast bite - it forgot its poison. Burrowing the mind into the crevasses, the nooks, leaving behind cranium. My end is my beginning. My end was with me from the start. My start is still with me at my end. Telos. Idos. Form-maker, reveal yourself!

Feeling is not enough. Believing is not enough. Trying is not enough. Good enough isn't.

Treasures in jars of clay.

Jesus drawing in the sand, mystery on mystery - confounding Girard and the Fathers - yet that story is not in the original manuscripts. It is not the Word. Logos. The evolution of group consensus and a narrative powerful enough to bond every nation, tribe, and gender. But is there a person??

I can make a person out of anything, simply draw a smiley face on a rock. Give me enough time and I will be attached. "Wilson!!" But really.

The wreath has lost its last needle. The season is over, yet the scent is strongest its ever been. The scent is everywhere.

Taken captive by vain philosophy, huh?

My poor knees flee from themself. I am not ready to be given all this.

I'm not afraid because "I" isn't there.

"Sapphires and garlic clot the bedded axle tree." Dear God what a brilliant mind! To write one line as he did. I fear he had no clue the stature of his words, their transformational effect.

It is only human to not know what you have when you do.

Happiness is remembered, never experienced.

Peaceably remove me from all of this, if you care. Let me settle under the tree, resting against the trunk, warmed by the sun.

Tormented is a stone skip from demented.

To give all that I have, over and over, that is my aim. That is my fullness. In each moment, may I bring to bear all of me.