Tag: philosophy

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Some Sun, Someone

The sun went down, and the reflection died with the new moon
I don’t know the answers, but they’re going to be inflicted on us soon

Breath like fire and blood is ice. Skin has its own mind.
Crawling out of the throat is the truth, letting sanity unwind.

If we had it to do over again, I would turn reality to ashes.
Instead, we stare into the horrors as the second hand passes

What flesh is this that parts so easily?
Embrace the blade and open to the breeze
The river runs warm
The source begins to freeze

The moon rose again and blankets the earth in reflected grace,
She turned her face away, letting pinpoints watch in her place.

Cataclysmic mother once torn to birth the barren daughter.
cries out in agony for the scars that evolution has brought her.

Penetrated and burned for the blood of those who died before
She hopes their suffering will end, and she can cry no more.

What flesh is this that parts so easily?
Embrace the blade and open to the breeze
The river runs warm
The source begins to freeze

We crave to claim and walk again on another mother in the sky
Who’s only child mishapen can barely stand to fly

Captured over to witness metal insects crawl her skin
The cycle of her sister will one day start again

But these ashes will drift forever on the cosmic ice
Considered the path but did not consider twice

What flesh is this that parts so easily?
Embrace the blade and open to the breeze
The river runs warm
The source begins to freeze

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Drained in Lies

Blinded by piles of pursued acquisitions
Running headlong into coming attrition
A maze to amaze from the things on which we graze
No depth, just breadth, high enough to block vision

Effort is energy, but not always progress
Movement is agitating, and often, we regress
Vibrations that phase in the ways the game plays
It is never obligated to bring about redress

Silence is golden, but not if we’re deaf
Listening is impossible if no tools are left
All the lies for which we prise the tympanic caul
Ripping out until the noise stops and we’re bereft

Anhedonia is not a form of peace
Falling to our death is not a release
A rictus they inflict us is not benedictus
We are naked and alone, but now without fleece

Hung by the Achilles, we’re shaved and then drained
For our lives and time, we are deceived and detained
Give up all you have is how we are trained
To support the parasitic idea they’ve ingrained

Silence is not consent
But it will not protect
When the dragons are hungry
And the pigs are erect

The parasite will never be satisfied
So it must be destroyed
Fire and steel and minds be deployed
Against the idea that meaning is to be employed.

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Morph Into

Metastatic metamorphosis 
evolutionary change
time-lapse ticking
Will it be human? Will it be strange?

Will the new growth be cancer
Will it nurture the body electric
Will the cocoon become a chrysalis
and we remain liquid psychometric

Non-Newtonian settled in a groove
Life not impacted enough to solidify
Dehydrate and crust over
evaporate and waiting to die

Vertebrates sell their bones
thinking change is in the air
when the time comes to make the change
Their spines are no longer there.

You’ve forgotten what you are
where you’ve been, how to live
you’ve sold the plot and cried of loss
and the soul you had to give

If god were real
and sober
and caring
She would have aborted you decades long past
your whining
your compromise
bread and circuses
That could have been something so vast

This is what we’ve become
This is our slow quietus
We gave up on looking outward
for walls and artifice

Mocked for accolades they did not request
the children of the house of Me
left on the hook for foolish ancestry
and a world that shouldn’t be

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Motion and Permenance

The idea of the fixed location is an illusion of perception. We are ever in motion, from the tiniest particle of our atoms to the largest wave of gravity making its way across spacetime. Standing in the Holy Land, you are not walking in the footsteps of prophets. Resting under a Bodhi tree, you are seeking enlightenment in the same place as the Buddha. Returning home is in your mind. Your soul, even.

Those places no longer exist. They are miles, kilometers, light-years away. Lost to the motion that is life. Life is not static. The universe, as we currently understand it, is expanding. Our galaxy is moving with the local cluster. Our star orbits the galactic core: our planet, the star. Our bodies are forever dying and rebuilding. Once that process has reached its inevitable end, our component elements return to the motion of succoring other lives.

The limitations we place on ourselves very often manifest as our desire to anchor in a fixed point. We allow our curiosity to calcify and become brittle. This is anathema to our own growth as individuals and a species. We must become fluid. Like Water – Bruce Lee.

To struggle with this is natural. Change and the chaos it brings are very often painful. We are conditioned at our very core to oppose change once we have settled into something we identify as safe and comfortable. A cave to shelter in. A bountiful meadow.

These are traps.

Ideology is the same. Religion, political beliefs, and holding to theories that have solutions to debunk them. The data stack of knowledge we use as a foundation must be forever expanded and solidified so that we may grow higher.

In spite of all of this being true to my knowledge, we must also remain watchful. Curiosity about consequences must accompany curiosity about the new and unknown. This should not become fear. The pain of consequence is just as often a teacher as is success.

This is how to correct many ills

This is the root of my growth.

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A wish

I want my brain to cooperate to maintain this meat suit I have been burdened with. I have decent stretches of being functional, then hit a wall and it is like another, self-destructive, shadow me is trying to drive. Not like hearing voices. Just… the urges and needs grow ragged edges. A fog settles over concentration. A near anhedonic slow-boiling rage bubbles up like a cranial reflux burning my amygdala like a raw, weeping esophagus of my subconscious. Everything I want becomes exhausting, even when it is something I love.

And then I climb out and the lingering bits crust over and fall away, leaving itching reminders of where they were in my psyche.

But the lingering adhesions where the edges are… remind me that the attachment points are still there. That I am still wired to interface with the morass. The primeval shade of unspecified rage and bile wants to burn the edges.