Whiskey and Melancholy
LOG: November 19th, 2019 — looking back
The wind rises softly over the gentle crest of the mountains, a storm brews in the heavens above. A haiku waiting to be written. The sound increases and the bird takes flight. Its beak musky with rage and fervor, waiting to stalk its prey flying miles above the common ground. I am not sure how I feel… its as if the world is being torn to shreds by color. A mighty and powerful color grasping my every attention. Captivating; a flower in the night reflected by the white moon above. Crescent yet ever so mysterious in its ways; unsure of how to protect it from the darkness looming below and present in its existential bliss. Clouds zoom past and leave the silhouette of a brown dwarf. A dwarf tree sprouting strongly from the ground beneath. Its roots so firm one cannot shake them from the firm brown earth.
The eagle takes flight once again. In search of nourishment and self-satisfying pleasure. Once again must the nest rest under the starry night. The chicks crying for their food. The bear comes out of its cave. An eternal winter.. the slumber of 2 thousand seconds, the restful peace looms overhead in the washy sky, A lake gleams with the reflection so pure the blind can feel the mirror blur. The hawk takes the food to the nest. Dawn sets a course for the west. A faulty compass, True north lies where the heart directs itself. (I) am none other than the voice of GOD. An inspiring imaginative light beam in the cosmic order of creation. Let that which floweth out of my mind be the paradox of light in darkness within the infinite void with binds us to infinity.
Once again, I take flight. Biased, self-diluted as the wind corrupts the eye of the predator. A mind so fragile that the slightest tip will lead it astray. The uncertainty of loneliness looms overhead. A single lighting bolt catapults over the frigid valley, For one second the clarity is experienced.
Not aligned with path of least resistance . I am hindering the flow of my natural course. Still, like a branch caught in the crossfire of twisted breaks in the water. The stream curls upward and the leaf drowns. Why drink? Why wonder.? When all I have to do is flow. Alone. Alone. Alone.
I have known solitude all my life and been okay. Why change now when things are at their best? Why burn the bridge which was built from struggle and dreams? The tipping point is near. A white winter takes stride toward the eagles nest. Freedom, liberation and the temptation to run away. Ever so strongly, I decide to curl into a little ball and feel the worthless effort which I pLACE ON LOVE. I AM NOT SURE HOW TO LOVE, I AM UNSURE HOW TO BE LOVED. PERHAPS I FEEL TOO MUCH. PERHAPS MY MIND HAS GOTTEN THE BEST OF ME. IT IS A SLOW DECENT INTO A MADNESS I CANNOT CONTROL OR SEE. THE FLEETING LIGHT RAPIDLY ESCAPES THE LAST FORM OF HOPE. ALL FOR WHAT? NOTHING… I AM ON SSTEROIDS.. HAHAHA NOT RESLLY BUT MY MIND IS RUNNING FASTER THAN I CAN KEEP UP; THE RACE ENDS WHEN I CROSS THE LINE. WHO SAID THERE WAS EVEN A RACE???? FUCK THAT SHIT, THE TABLES HAVE TURNED ONCE AGAOIN AND THE MOCKINGJAY FLEES THE DARING SCARLET EVENING. DUSK SETS OVER THE SNOWY HILLTOP AND GRIMLY LIGHTS THE DISTANT SHIP SETTING COURSE FOR THE SUN. A FLAT EARTH… NO. A ROUND ONE… NEITHER, AND INFINITE PLANE OF EXISTENCE UPON WHICH ALL CONSCIOUSNESS LIES. NEITHER UP NOR DOWN, NOR LEFT OR RIGHT, THE STREAM FLOWS IN ALL DIRECTIONS, NEVER THE SAME, NEVER EBBING THE FL0W OF THE COLD CURRENT. A SALMON TROTS DOIWN THE PATH OF LEAST RESISTANCE, CAPABLE OF FEELIN WHAT’S AHEAD BEFORE THE CURRENTS CATCHES UP. THE STATE OF FLOW; THE STATE OF INACTIVITY. ONE WITH THE UNIVERSE, ONE WITH GOD….. OH GOD. GOD IS HERE. I CAN FEEL GOD WHISPERING INMY EARS THE SWEET WORDS OF NECTAR WHICH HAVE CROSSED FALLS GATE IN THE EARLY WINTER NIGHT.
A POEM BESET ON THE HEAVENS
THE COSIMC LIGHT GLOWS IN THE FRITH OF THE EARLY FIRE. SUN
NIGHT
AND THE EBBING CREEK SILENTLY WHISPERING TO THE BANKS OF SHALLOW BLUE.
ALGAE PARKS ITS FEET AT THE BASE OF THE HILL. CARESSING THE WATER AND CHANNELING THE REBIRTH OF LIFE. STAGNANT, YET PURE
ONCE, TWICE, THRICE AND AGAIN, THE RISING WAVES HEAP OVER THE FROGS LILYPAD AND LANDS SOFTLY ON THE SHORES OF FULL EARTH.
PLAGUED BY UNCONSCIOUSNESS AND AN IGNORANCE SO BIZARRE IT CURSES THE NAME OF GOD.
Why stop writing now when I have so much bottled up inside. Its as if the words require no thought but rather a precise recounting of the digital accuracy that befalls my fingersas they type. I should learn to type. A skill all writers need in order to create. A drunk writer is not a bettter writer, they are simply more free than the latter sober mind which restricts its thoughts to the blatantly obvious. That which it believes to be true.
Enough for tonight.
Ahbaled my muse, habitaramba nethodliytad bishum. Traerom hundairi gavanda.
What does this mean??
