SHOTS FIRED Those dependent on the consolation of religion have been lured from their caves, in which they have long hidden, making comfortable beds for themselves amid the teeth of nature. The scent of reality is intolerable to them, so they swear against it in defense of the blindness that pleases. They had rather not see at all, than to see themselves. But I blame not. I have once placed my coin in spiritual stock with hope of disarming the world of its discomforts. But now I must keep reality close. No matter how hard she is on the eyes, she is the blanket that provides me my warmth. One dimly-lit afternoon she brought death to my door. I was a weightless lover in whom death struck a curious cord. I leapt for her as if she had outstretched arms. The magnificence of you, the bewilderment of the thought – this parting with consciousness! How it outweighs the sadness. I imagine losing life is easier than witnessing life lost. I mean dying must be less sad than watching others do it. But maybe not for me. I’m afraid my affair with life has left me resentful towards death, and any life after. Surely it seems “the afterlife” is yet another attempt at consolation. What is the alternative to this imaginative defense? To acknowledge where we are? A simple nod to the harsh world will do. An agreement with it, that’s it. An agreement that life is the freezing chill of heartache following the warmth of a lover’s embrace. Certainly this will go over horribly with the romantics. Perhaps my attempt at inclusiveness still does not escape the narrow-mindedness of my human account. Perhaps I have reached no richer soil than that of the sun-dried surface. Perhaps I have come to no rarer insight thus far. Perhaps I am, in fact I know I am, but a brash opinion in comparison to the currents of the great seas. Indeed I am exactly that which I curse. But allow me to speak on humanity’s behalf once more. Consider the possibility that all things are only constituents of one giant metaphor representing the human account of existence, a metaphor the masses call god. But what lies beyond man also lies beyond his god, and the spectacular nature to which he belongs, awaits. What can I do but hope that my words hint at the inexplicable? Writing of it may be the only comforting thing in my life. I feel helpless immediately upon lifting the pen. The sheer insignificance of it all dawns on me. These words are only symbols – complex, eclectic webs of feeling and experience drawn from the recycled psyche of humankind. Nevertheless I will persist in my efforts to assign to these words, a significance that goes seen. Whether I fail millions of times unto madness, I will do what I must. For the truth lay waiting for me to invent it. Only then will I attain originality. But even then, posterity knows me only in fading photographs and a pseudo-knowledge of a soon ancient century, one in which billions of people will be washed away. Music and moral trends came and went, as did media and fashion, but the character of written word contains the ingredients for lasting relevance. When man can no longer read, he is no longer. But until the collapse of the house that holds him, the written word will embed itself in his mind and sculpt his identity from the psychic abyss. So this is freedom? Perhaps we have escaped our suicide attempts only to walk away dead men.
Posted on: Tue, 19 Nov 2013 00:33:14 +0000
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