the moon swung above my head like some sort of ever present pendulum of what seemed to calculate the days of eternity. As I stood in the first night of the brisk autumn breeze, listening to the symphony of crickets frogs and shaking trees; the voices of those who had perished before me, I felt a tightness in my chest; Exhaling the last of my cigarette, the same brand my grandfather smoked up to the point he joined the for-spoken symphony,, I knew the feeling to be an accumulated omen of the same fate which was to take me there. What was I to do on such a lonesomely serene evening? Material distractions amounted to nothing more than pornography under such a sober introspection hauntingly presenting its constance to me. As I trustily tried to drink away my sorrows the knowledge only grew with intensity. Perhaps that was why I was so lonely, there was nothing to be satisfied. The lust for others was as weak as any other lust; only a lust; a weak id driven idol; any rationalized meaning brought about the destruction of any grained passion within me; however lustful that rationale was, it clung to me like the looming echoes of my dreams, closely. There was little that could truly please me. My self a bottomless pit of empty desire but yet so thirsty for something pure, true and full of aim. An aim to make the mark; not miss; yet missing was the only arrows I had ever shot in my life. I was a failure of sorts, in the eyes of my father and mother quite possibly the only eyes who watched me grow and had something within themselves of me truly left.
I had friends, a lover that I cherished dearly, but it was all pissed away by misplacement of my thoughts; the borrowing of ideas which ruined any ounce of who I may have been,
But where could I go, what could I do, what can I see? Who is here watching listening to me? Can you heal your own wounds with the time of the hours, which are really only days and years. Can you ride through the valley of dried flowers sober or must we stop and have a beer. I have no fear now; I know I can step through the door of whose questions are left unanswered by language and understanding of humanity without a key. This is what always frustrated me; academia and the advanced achievements it sowed. Yet how much they are all, we are all pretenders of owed; thinking we know this and that cell phones and sports stats the status quo, neuro-chemistry and history, anthropological theological mystical facts our goals and effigies ? yet how many of us live and see? What happens when death opens our eyes; do the details of human enterprise wail and cry? Do the memories of such things over power us to fear, or do they disappear baptizing our vision clear. So i lay healthy yet sick and bound, to the philosophies of those who stand on fictitious solid ground; when lucid reasons are all that make sense and knowledge only lives in present tense, yet we claim importance to our own hypocrisies; the remembrance of facts, those terribly elegant false liberties. But yet we all fall into linguistic contemplation and pretend we know our meditation; nothing but psychological sedation, hypocritical deterioration; hypocrisy is all that lives to be when death is the truth that sets you free, from you and from me, laying beyond any conditioned thought we could have ever grown to see, so I plea, return to the depths in which we came, im not sure how and i feel ashamed; but dont look for wisdom in answers, it can be found in death like cancer