Proof Surrounds Us All

Ironically, I am alive.
It is ironic if you look into it, not my being alive, but you.

The things we eat, how we drive, the conglomerate of ideas we have acted upon, the slew of information that abates our reason, and the reason for which without there would be, nothing really is known.

I speak not of the things that are apparent, the tree that stands before us perhaps, rather of the things we find opinion in.

We know the things that make a man, man. We don't necessarily understand what makes him masculine, but inasmuch as the capacity for reason exists, do we use it purposefully, of just in times of tribulation? The person whom in malcontent reaches out for opinion is bound to find the plethora that is individuality as it pours in rivers of confusion at our laps. If you can think of the waters of a river, in the form of a cascade or waterfall, on your lap flowing from above or on your lap dumping hundreds of pounds of opinion... do you think you can just reach into the waters, grab one chosen drop(s), and hold on to it? Or would the water squeeze through our hold, or worse yet, dissipate with the natural heat we radiate? Thus our lives are filled with the waters of many before us, whom in an attempt to clearly state their premise, others understood it to be a statement of fact. Whereas those who spoke without validation merely attempted to get it through colleagues, the meek minds that attend a forest of information can easily get lost. For those latter ones -to them- attest to the shadows that in unknown land came to them; they would be remiss of fact.

It is through fear that our attention shifts in order to obtain security if only for a moment. For if a person lost in the darkness of their surroundings gave in to fear, the wind-shook branches around them would be enough to cause catastrophic stress. In the same fashion, were it to be believed that the nearby wind pushing on those branches was merely the  much necessary air with which to breathe and keep calm then the situation would shift paradigms rather quickly.

It is the nature of humans to react. There are systems in place to help or prevent things in our surrounding from harming us. As the heart beats in solace of our egregious thoughts so do other systems impart their supposed matters upon us when they are supposed to. Would it be too much then to suppose that as the body, the natural statement of facts that is our prime example, performs so does every one thing in our environment which from nature too evolves. With systems in place as within the human body to act and react in their own time and timing to any surrounding data which imparts a type of change on them.

The observational folly of the untrained human eye falls to teaching and ascribing to new realities that simply are not, realities that impatiently proceed where a stop sign clearly marks the ways where to go while the way ahead remains blocked. The lack of preparation that is going forward fully missed while embarking often lead to the confusing and teaching of things that without their proper estate could never be. For a hand could not feel without nerves (however complex the system is), nor could nerves react without the limbic system or other neurons relaying information about the feelings we ought to have given the strata.

The simplicity of the matter is barred by reason. The ifs, whats, and whoms, of a predetermined answer riddled by the emotion-without-proof that is our believing of all the aforementioned things. Crass the nature of us humans in this epoch we live, where thought has become the opinion of others, with ours lurking on what the public fears or feels best ascribing to. The crime that is doing for doing forsaken by nothing today. Once the study of humans was as simple as seeing whether more men helped women pick up books dropped on a library floor. Today chivalry doesn't exist.

When chivalry is doing what God says is right, or what the state will not prosecute, there is a type of judgement that ensues which denounces chivalry of its merit. That takes us into the what is right of things and who exactly decides on it. As succinctly as can possibly be expressed, acting without reacting is no longer in our code. Whether you believe it to be a paradigm shift or something other, the observational proof surrounds us all.

True Life and Death

Perched upon the smallest tree on the alcove, dark gray feathered-wings around her body; the night caressing her white body as smoothly as the soft texture of the digits on her back. Gazing upon the lamentation of the boy, with a stare piercing his thoughts, looking deeply into the affection that brought them together. The affection of another which could not be... so often has this love for the utterances of the soul brought this ethereal being into the plains of humans.

Perched upon the smallest tree on a still branch that -with her- listens to the cries and gentle sobs of the disillusioned soul whom below with tearful eyes embraces the sentiment which brought the blade to such enamored hands. The flow of feelings from deep within, as well as the cold and wet hands holding destiny so dear are a sight craved and informally agreed upon to be the last will of anyone who upon it dares to find themselves.

Perched upon the smallest tree where destiny beckons reason to leave this place of solace and unjust darkness, where a gloom-filled heart tares away reason and lays a path upon the malice of our thoughts. Unbearable are the thoughts of loss which bring uncomfortable firmness to the hand which dearly craves for a finality most fear.

Perched upon the smallest tree now culling to the choices that to the eternal rest deem that quality of an individual's choices into the finality of all things. She feels the soft breeze dissipate as it comes close to her, as it dies before ever achieving a soft touch upon her silk-like skin; virgin to the touch of any living being, and foreign to the love she queries from below...

Perched upon the smallest tree without thought of conscience, or sentimental notion, neither with veracity nor dedication, and in most frailty without love. To steal the essence which upon her shadowy figure bestows life, yet below such terminal disdain bringing upon the most rational voice those who live posses. For it is now in darkness' veiled content that a wish for damnation is real and ultimate in its finality.

Perched upon the smallest tree like withering fruit in chaos living and now seeking to embark in one more charade...

Perched upon the smallest tree wings as dark as the night which bore them flight stretch out in a single motion, revealing the provocative vixen whom must now in the night's cold embrace, look upon the soul of this being one last time. To tear away the soul is her purpose, to ingest fear and steal the fruit which will further her existence... the love, the real love that now in blood leaves to never return. "Die, die now my child. To me yield that which you could not attain. Attain thence the merit of your upheaval."

Standing upon the very air which her wings drag, with dark wings outstretched in a sign of glorious conquer, just above the now still figure, she devours the love which entangled these two in affairs of true life and death.

To Hell

The darkened sky tells of the affair.
Smoke clouds rising like no prayer.
Battlegrounds of thoughts in slaughtered pain.
No blood, just opportunity falling as rain.

The darkened heart speaks a riddle.
To find oneself there in the middle,
battle for reason being lost at present,
never knowing what is meant.

The darkened voice in hoarse tones announced,
"death has come" the sound pronounced.
Everywhere the fallen are my soul,
the battle my essence stole.

The darkened vision through peril sees,
on mountains cold and through the breeze,
my body torn on bloody ground,
I died here, to this place bound.

The darkened mystery now clear,
through my chest the still and dirty spear,
no penance paid, just the solace in the stillness,
no apparent malediction or illness.

The darkened memory of it all,
I share with you as I fall,
I hear no choir, trumpet, or bell...
I feel nothing on my way to hell.

----
For Grace
----

Claim for Thought.

Oh folly that is the humanity of all who for purpose, idolatry, or cause place themselves in this status.

I live in a society where anger is the cup purchased at the local coffee store; to think of this cup of anger being overpriced really is the ultimate of insults.

I think, therefore a certain right must be bestowed upon the rhetoric I attempt to so elusively bestow upon everyone who reads the comments section of any place I visit.

What is this bond people have created with futility? What is the nature of the auspices without fervor we portray in chat rooms, blogs, or other severely-lacking-scrutiny places of writing?

To converse was once to socialize. To socialize today seldom means being part of a social gathering or institution. Socializing today means being the means of a ridicule, being the point where falsehoods fall, the ears of opinionated someones whom now that in fallen eyes failed to derive the satisfaction of a reply by form or prose now takes unto the streets in order to vociferate the most obnoxious of flattery of their ego; seldom having any truth to what is portrayed, and worse yet denoting the failure to understand the modus operandi of civility. To prostrate one's feet upon the ground where others with real value, studious concern, and proven research matters, only to attempt to besmirch their findings through flattery of nonsensical platitudes conceived out of the lack of tact in public mediums is just common today.

Let us embark in a journey to the center of the Earth's core by way of entering a fissure on the ground would be something worth the writings of Jules Verne, but in today's society merely talking about the issue -as if it were a real thing to begin with- immediately brings about a war of factions where some with real knowledge aid in the creation of the stupefaction that becomes the cannon and dogma of a new group that usurps the avant-garde's real attempts to bring forth new thought, by through delusional prose indicate the findings and proof of the illiterate or in the worse case the brute aiding the former.

I attest and hereby proclaim a type of decadence which in prowess battles all manner of scientific endeavor. There is no charismatic attempt to clearly state matters in a way that can be proven through rigorous fervor. This brings us to the I think, therefore it must be true gallantry of the ones whom with agile fingers smirk while wily corroding the goodness that should exist in any public encounter by means of exemplarism, or rather the opposite of in terms of what is discussed, not what is.

What is the solicitude with scientific endeavor? Whereas to err is in the nature of thinking beings, the matter of straying from the vicissitudes that allow for human thinking growth are all but annihilated with every utterance. Listening as a matter of learning of dangers that may lurk nearby has been a human quality for a long time, as is using other senses to defend our livelihood from the dangers that exist in our vicinity. That candidly explains the nature of the thinking animal whom now aided by the very nature that allows us to love, to endanger others with their articulations of disagreement as if they are the fact from which knowledge is based upon; could not be more dangerous.

Furthermore, we allow the stated to offend, worse yet we become complicit by regurgitating the matter in our own way thus giving truth to our fellow family or friends on a matter than should have never left the area where with little concern it was first chastised by way of changing the known for this hypocrite notion that is our uncensored thought.

Challenge yourself not to answer, repeat, or otherwise promote a matter without the experience of education and instead seek to learn about the truth in what has become more than a passing thought before further increasing the vexation that is seeing the same matter over and over where you go. The privacy that is our thoughts should never exist unless to attempt to instead of stating claims seek for it to be provable to whatever degree possible.

I cannot argue that -as Russell's Teapot posits- things are as they are. The miracle that is discovery could not be achieved without the realities that come from natural thought. Hence my previous statement that should such a thought manifest, experts should be sought, testing should ensue, and from the fruitful labor of understanding, once the matter has been scrutinized, then and only then can we pose a claim.

To speak without thinking is as swimming without the knowledge with which to do so.

I challenge you to hold your thoughts hostage until such a time where you can properly analyze or through serious pondering of available studied material, the matter before further critically hampering our declining intellectual fathom of any one thing.

I believe turns into the inexcusable fantasy that is proclaiming without proof the sense of reality that exists only in conversation, thought, myth, and as such it should be taboo.

To speak with eloquence as the human  dictionary of eventualities dictated by choice is different than the orator whom with knowledge -however little- of a subject postulates and through discourse thwarts a matter that has been determined as the subject of discussion.

Opinion for opinion's sake is as useless as it is baseless. An opinion, when challenged by the cannon, stands as being nothing more than a thought without the truth inasmuch as truth is knowledge derived from taught and clearly stated findings of the scientific community. What is the truth we may ask a doctor before surgery, and they'll vigorously state through the arduous task of reviewing volumes of information in their memory, the matter with detail. What is your opinion we may ask the doctor and they will answer with the dignity allowed them through the Hippocratic Oath what they believe based on previous examples, statistics, or experience and while good the opinion it will lack the veracity of the truth; because experience applies only to that moment in time, statistics measure individual cases lumped into a number, and ultimately all measure into what we know as a gesture of kindness.

As for banter in scenarios where a serious topic is being discussed, I entertain the idea that any subject without an open mind is bound for failure.

As for science being wrong in the past, there is no patsy or scheme dethroned, for when science is found to be flawed it is also made stronger with the new scientific finding.

Gullible is the impatient person whom argues against the stated thought without realizing the validity or lack thereof in the argued.

As such, when asking for the truth, the palpable recognition of facts is apparent and thus can be considered. Only when the truth is exploited can we assert as to what the feasibility of any licit statement may carry; the veracity which we claim for thought.

El Mismo Amor

Jugué con canicas de niño.

Con uñas y dedos los hoyitos hacía.

Mi papá recuerdo que aunque falto de cariño

A buscar gallitos me llevó un día,

Tanto árbol y barranco por doquier.

No recuerdo cuanta vaina bajamos

De colores casi negro muy fuertes al caer.

A la casa regresamos

Cosa nueva había que ver.

Habrimos aquello y qué peste

Mis primeros gallitos iba a tener.

Con gallitos jugué alli en el Oeste

Divertido, aunque no podia ganar,

En el mismo hoyo de la canica

Con fuertes golpes me podía desahogar.

Las pequeñas palmitas y sus coquitos,

Aquellos que de verde se hacen rojos

En su tiempo mis favoritos

Me desquitaba las perdidas tirando hasta por matojos.

Y abuelita jugando dominó

Aunque cieguita estaba,

Con capicu en mano otra ficha jugó

Pues por las cataratas se le escapaba!

Y aveces en la playa,

Cuando a las boyas se hiba

Na había ni agua ni toalla,

Que la arena prohiba.

Los vientos aquellos de navidad

Planeando parranda o mañanita,

Te digo con toda sinceridad

Extraño tanto a mi islita.

En mi corazón la llevo,

Junto a mis tantos recuerdos

Y aunque se que no debo

Me enfadan mucho los lerdos.

Opiniones vanas y seguidoras

No del pecho o corazón

Sino de farándula a todas horas

Dándole a todos las razón.

Soy Boricua pero también humano

Y aunque no olvido de donde vine

A todos trato como hermano

Esté en mi casa, carro, o cine.

Tan fácil virar la cara

Cuando apuntan el dedo en tu dirección.

Mejor a veces se callara

Cuando no pone atención

Y en cizaña no abarcara

Ni generarce mas discución.

Tan lindas palabras en el Himno Borinqueño

Describiendo el resplandor de su belleza

Y el que de allí sale, tan pequeño

Prefiere derribar naturaleza.

Cuando mal hablan de ella

Mi Isla, casa, y son

El jidiondo con su querella

Sin punto bueno o dirección.

Pues todos sentimos

Aunque algunos más que otros.

Pero nunca nos rendimos

De eso estoy orgulloso en nosotros.

Y tanto mas que digerir

Cuando verdaderamente se siente

Cielo, monte, colina, y horizonte seguir

Pues lo llevamos en la mente.

Como el correr por las cunetas

En días lluviosos en Mayo

De aguas ellas repletas

Y claro después que no haya rayos.

O de las fiestas de pueblo o Patronales

De mes en mes celebrando

Pasando tiempo juntos en los mismos lugares,

De pie, sentados, o hasta bailando.

Mi isla no es cualquiera,

Ella es Boriquén.

Quisiera yo usted la viera

Poder decir en alto Amén;

Pues sus jardines floridos

De mágico primor

Nos mantienen de corazón unidos

Por isla y patria sintiendo el mismo amor.

Liar then

I have been thinking of dying since I was a teenager. I’m still alive. The culmination of the events that led here, all succinct, making the vast net of alliances that form the past I/we carry from corner to darkness and from darkness to our inner disdain seems perpetual at best but stops at our time of quietus rest.

What if I die and there is another place?

What if I die and there is a vast never eclipsing sun -brown in color- to the north that burns the arid desert waste to every horizon I face. To the south a cold sun that although green in color, devours the landscape with its frozen breath. From the top, above lies resting a never moving body. A meteor that while falling was held in place, in the place of clouds for there are none here, and this black, pale, and unknown entity follows my every step. Eternity here for the tormented soul.

What is eternity? I tired of a life of incoherence, devastating truths that lies could never hope to reach their floor, and an ever continuing respite after every event, as if we must not dwell in the experiences or learn from them for there are many more and each one hides its own dark path. A mere 13 years of life and I abandoned the sense of it all in the utopia of hate, where boredom is awaiting to be lashed, fear is being under the whip, and death is a price to be obtained from surviving it all. Almost 30 years ago now I revisit the continuing gluttony that avast at nothing before obtaining complete surrender from its subject, I, in a life of torment and deceit.

Whereas control is the absence of free will, free will becomes a dream to be had every night. The only place where you can hide from the real without losing hope. However, dreams too have much to say about reality, in their own reality, and as it forms its truths. Living a double life where irony, war, the fallacy that is democracy, hunger, servitude and slavery for monies to be obtained for services rendered, all amassing to the desire to see it all cease for a moment of silence in wonderment of how individuals with the gift of thought can think to want, desire, and be a part of any of that through the pursuit of any dream had.

Abstinence of thought is the only peaceful reminiscent thing that quiets the brain for a second. To look at the past, at hundreds of years my predecessors and see through their writings that life in the days of their atonement with the pen was no different than the one we lead today. Caress me cloud for want of lightning in my brain I want in a clear start towards some restitution. Perhaps the inability to see beyond the truths that surround me are the cause for the want that has clouded my ability to wish for more for so long. I yearn not for peace or laughter, or for merit or acknowledgement, neither do I crave death anymore than I do water.

But what is eternity, I beg to question? What, if not a desert with life eternal in solitude wandering the sands of time under, in, and through your toes as you move in naked fashion through the airless vacuum you have achieved. What if instead we are surrounded with ourselves? Copies upon clones, upon similitude and equalness that serve to remind you only for eternity that you too were a compromised asset in this millennial search for answers. For I too have partaken in the things that I hate, done the things that would make a child squander their food, a thinking adult look away in disdainful reprise, and an elder stare in full understanding that life must go on. Therein lies the question perhaps. Is the continuation of evil, if only in parts, the proper way to go again? Should we continue to allow the gangrenous arm to stay attached to its host knowing full well the result? Could we permit the blood of someone who saves lives to be contaminated through a nasty cut, come in contact with bacteria, and eventually perish in a painfully slow demise because we simply don’t like the sight of the wound or become squeamish at the sight of red paint, red linen, red clay or any other red thing imitating blood? I’m afraid that for as long as humanity has been, the answer has been the same: yes we can. There is a monster in each of us that is unfurled to the strands of hair that are humanity as the head, and although we trim the hair, bears refuge and the root remains. This root is then allowed to sparse in the most subtle of ways until we achieve the grandeur of human wonders: us.

Millions of generations of cells morphing and adapting to the most brutal of causes, their code rewritten to withstand the most current of affairs. Within the code the origin, which likely corrupt, allows for the perpetuation of the cells and replicate into the masses that are. Then this strain, being flawed, is connected with another, which while flawed retains aspects of the previous as it forms a newly achieved state of fault. This new individual renders fruitful the achievements of others, and peers praise them, and mates come into the equation as the aforehand perpetuates further into more of us. With rotten core, the fruit may bare a color of wanting to picking hands, it may further avoid scrutiny by hiding its true essence for a while longer, but eventually the core becomes exposed and the worms now feasting on the rotten code are only examined as the cell was merely removed for observation from any one of us.

Look deep and answer frankly the question: how faultless are you? Living in this eternity with an unmentionable number of strains that are I, all whimsically interacting in a never ending dance of lies. For I will laugh, I will cry, I will understand and be confused. I too will want and yet rescind, and I will ultimately kill. Whether it is I or the I which before me lies, it is I nonetheless, all the same code, the same strand, the same perpetuation of futility for an expanse of eternity.

Eternity, should there be one, could be so surprising. Alas the skies will open and beyond the gates the sounds of deep and high tones coming from choirs of celestial beings all in unison and forever loyally painting the lie that is living with their trumpets and harps, and baritones and sopranos. Because to know happiness, feel happiness, and entice happiness from others one must first appear in a certain light. Never can I say that I did not sin, that I did not fail, or that I did not falter. A child is as much in debt to the collector as the ancient being a centennial alive is. A child is not bereft of the evil that with two halves made it a whole.

I will end this here in complete adulation of the believer that hand in hand a given day, say a Sunday, praises the selected entity for a day of life in their life. That with blinders, much like a horse on a race, looks around and sees nothing, and feels all but the so-called truth. Then later, outside of the doors of this solemn place returning to life, like a soldier arriving home after having to slaughter or see others slaughtered, and sees a nurse whom in their day to day has to see, withstand, and never judge women as they demerit themselves and through his or her hands end the life that within them bore a bad code; at them wishing them evil, or talking behind their backs because supposedly words do not kill, and making all kinds of judgment outside a place sanctified for the avoidance of the very thing they can do for a set period of time but must return to hastily.

I dare you once more to -in good taste- revisit the dark corners of your life, those where you don’t even let yourself in, the closet as some call it, and see if it is empty. I will accept I am a liar then.

Quiero Morir

Me pesa vivir y quiero morir.

Jamás volver al día de hoy, partir.

Ver nunca el hoy que mañana pueda existir.

En rumbo hacia la nada quiero ir.

Me pesa vivir y quiero morir.

Nada ya me importa en este fingir,

Lentamente cayendo y no lo puedo avatir,

De monte a playa y cielo a suelo y nada que eludir.

Me pesa vivir y quiero morir.

He visto plenamente el rugir

Que con miedo en mi sale y en su esparcir

Destruye lo que con amor no puedo describir.

Me pesa vivir y quiero morir.

No encuentro a que dios mirar en este fingir

Que con castañuela en espectáculo puede erigir

Y con poco aliento derribar y por si abolir.

Me pesa vivir y quiero morir.

No tengo ya el aliento y nada quiero unir

Ni en aflicción someter a otro a este escribir…

Pues me pesa servir, permitir, y destruir.

Me pesa vivir y quiero morir.

De una represa gritar mientras en caída el suelo puedo medir;

En esta soledad comprensión no puedo conseguir,

Y por estar vivo hiero a mi prójimo… preferiría mentir.

Me pesa vivir y quiero morir.

Qué dirá mi hijo al leer de este sufrir,

Un dia como hoy que le pedi su sonreir

Pero es tan difícil obtener cuando herimos al discutir.

Me pesa vivir y quiero morir.

Ni un maldito mar mas quiero ver y así fingir,

Que no me pesa estar presente en este proseguir,

Pués el fin no fin, solo martirio con velo y yo el hazme reír.

Me pesa vivir y quiero morir.

Nadie me entiende, o yo a ellos en mi debatir;

Se me da la razón para que me calle, pleno sucumbir;

Hazme reír a pleno día, nunca quiero revivir.

Me pesa vivir y quiero morir

Porque vivir es morir

Mi pensar no puedo eludir

Y hasta a mi aborrezco, sin nada tener que cohibir.

Me pesa vivir y quiero morir,

No por que odio o en desagrado que pueda esculpir,

No por que injusticia nos alcanza a todos al partir,

Mas por que el desenlace es solo de película y la mía terminó.

Miedo De Ser Quien Se Quiso De Mí

Siento morir. Me corre por las venas como agua de río por su cauce lentamente antes de la sequía el sentirme así. Ardiente la sangre mientras pasa por los corredores de mi corazón que fuertemente palpita en mi pecho con la fuerza de agua en catarata al llegar a la piedra abajo. El agujero que ya formado por mi dolor no puede ser llenado. A plena luz del día observo la oscuridad a mi alrededor, una tiniebla en esta decepción que le llamamos vida la cual de la mano me lleva al margen que no me preocupa llegar a el lo mas rápido posible.

Me destruye, el saber que he llegado hasta aquí, esparciendo lo que me hace sufrir con el gentío que a mi alrededor se esconde de los monstruos que no existen más allá de las barreras invisibles que he construido con palabras y gestos. Me urge morir, desaparecer, y nunca jamás volver a esparcir por medio de palabras comunes o no entendidas ni por miradas sutiles esta soledad que llevo dentro de mi. Se que hiero al individuo, que aunque parcialmente atado a nuestra relación se encuentra solo en algún momento contemplando las palabras que por ser tan descortés traigo a la intemperie con las cosas que digo con tanto placer.

Me parece que entonces el desaparecer, como el rostro de la tierra que cubierta por agua se convierte en el hogar de otros seres vivientes, es lo más dichoso que pueda hacer. Bienaventurado aquella que por falta de conocerme vive una vida placentera, pues soy ejemplo de lo que pasa cuando otros viven cerca de la exactitud del odio, irrelevancia, e inexplicable pensar que el ser dotado significa saber algo; sabemos que es mucho más: ¡no es nada!

He aquí el ave que voló de un lago a un río, de río a mar, y de mar a continente así siguiendo su camino hasta que ahora alrededor llegando puede decir, no me falta nada de donde salí. Postrado ahora en su cobija mira como lo imposible es tan sencillo como el caer de una hoja, la descomposición de la misma, y hasta la continuación de su especie por ese modo. Lo simple es tan fácil como la creación del océano, el estallar de un volcán, o el taller creado de los escombros de ellos. Pués lo que intriga no es el producto sino el proceso, el proceso intriga porque no todos somos dotados con la misma facilidad o entendimiento de todos los procesos, el anhelo de los mismos entes, o el mérito que conlleva pasar por cualquier situación y no en vano. Es allí que capturamos y capitulamos el sueño de todo lo que fué y aunque sin visión al momento de lo que será.

Es entonces que sin infracción volamos -como el ave mencionada- hacia una aventura sin control sobre nuestras facultades. Lo que pensamos saber no es diferente a como la parte de la masa que usamos para cubrir una tártara de manzana, y no la que usamos para el fondo; sencillamente todo es lo mismo pero la apariencia de uno estando arriba y la exposición al calor hace que se vea tan diferente a lo del fondo habiendo salido la masa toda de la misma mezcla. Así somos, pensamos que tenemos nuestras facultades bajo control, el nivel al cual nos destacamos con los demás, y hasta el curso en que a deriva nos encaminamos desde el ayer.

No soy lo que se quiso de mi, nada mas de lo que yo quise ser. No siento lo que se debe dado los contenidos de mi alrededor al igual que madre en nido mientras hacia ella sin rumbo cambiante se acercan los gases de un volcán acabado de eruptar. No quiero aceptar lo que soy por miedo de ser quien se quiso de mí.

Nothing In Itself

The thread holding me together grows thin once more. Tiring the job of the sewist, in daily strife forever in attempt to end the job which without contemplation prostrates itself before continuity in perpetual errand to be continued as I… as I tirelessly diminish my satisfaction a second at a time while staring at a screen playing images that rampage by without any meaning. This serenade with missing tones could not easier tell the story unfolding behind my heart’s pensive nature, for I a puppet of its desires aimlessly wander, desolate and in a type of clandestine irate negation of self and being. What am I if I deny my existence?

I prostrate myself henceforth before the wily desires of will that bereft of owner rode rampant through my being taking hence what little ability there was to comprehend. Inexplicably I see the span of this life as all encompassing, all at once riding a dark nightmare horse with flames at its hooves where its stride rampages through field or thought. In its onyx eyes the center ablaze with a fire that once in my heart, now stolen permanently, rides on ebony gallop to a horizon filled with charcoal nights. In this night, the ebony figure with silk tapestry on its neck bathed in stolen tears from this host, with midnight braids forming the names of all those who have had this visitor come by their window on a dark night; lit only with the fiery prints and gaze of this mysterious equivocator of death in silence’s triumphant scream.

Take me! Take me again, the job is not done. I am unfulfilled. As I ruminate of the desire that may have overtaken my fears and life someday I cannot seem to fathom the illuminating brink whence death became the light and the light dimmed into the simmer like state you find at dusk. I cannot find the fear to appropriate the moment into what another human person with similar vicissitudes may incorporate thus violating the state of solace and regretful shame and in doing so arise; succulent the taste of victory once savoured thoroughly, but it is this the point in between when one must tend to the wounded, give the orders for the sacrificial few to save the plural element… what a picture to paint in a canvas where all the space, already taken by the death and decay preceding this moment is but the capitulation never perceived -now implored.

I fall. There is a dismay that is usurped by the glory of satisfaction, but only in the most trivial of forms. Concave the hall and hollow the space behind all paintings in this section of my life. For what is straight in this fissure leading to the end of all that is known? To see, and not be understood, is as doing and not having a result. The finality of all things being equal in that all must be quantifiably accounted for I do not dare dispute. My quarrel, if there should be one, is with the serene nature of all the zombies that seemingly dreaming pass me by without a muse to corrupt their senses into the absolute truth that surrounds them. This is an undeniable truth, a truth we are born into and inevitable die into, the truth that death is only a moment away. The oblivious nature of the herded cattle is as enigmatic as the mischievous ways they carry themselves.

Sacrosanct the will, idea, belief, and imaginative, however brief, nature of continuation. How quaint, to place oneself in a pedestal of ultimate freedom, persuant of life eternal in death. To aspire to become what in life could not be accomplished as many before you have done. Right, regurgitating comes to mind! Alas, life ends and with it the pursuit of all things albeit ideas are the dangerous savage that has waged wars upon humanity, rid cities through genocide of my ancestors, and all in the righteous pursuit of a great ideal of continuity. What does it all mean if in death we all have nothing and in life we work hard to achieve death, thus nothing in itself.

What then?

I am a dead man, yet I live. The life that transpires is of deceit to the neighbor whom in seldom trepidation allows the passing of time to be clearly marked by the deceit -not planned- of this age.

I died long ago in another country. My body and person went seeking to honor freedom. What returned was an empty carcass that harbored an emptiness and a desire I today share with everyone around me; that is what returned.

The cry inside me is loud and although deafening the hoarse whispers that throw me off balance as my ears aching make my whole body tremble ask them to cease if only for a moment. However, the boat has no mast, no captain, no passengers, or need any longer as it aimlessly wanders about the vast ocean.

Perilous the nature of my atonement as I look at the horizon looking to find the darkness I carry with me, but see nothing but the clear sun staring me back. I cannot stand this clarity much more. Momentous the cataclysm that tore, shredded, and disposed of my intellect and left only something vaguely resembling vanity. Not just any type or apparent vanity. For as with many other things in this special life, there are categories and one must carefully search within them all in order to find not what one seeks, but what one should have seen or found long ago. Because it is in this blindness, it is in that failure that the killing occurs. The already dying person has their wound slowly picked and poked, and opened and searched, and torn and emptied.

We can only take but so much before we truly stop empathizing with ourselves and the reason behind our reasoning. For all that is should have been, but perhaps no longer should in that new things should usurp those remaining and establish what they must. I can not protest the ill desires that live inside the thoughts I do not manage. For in observation I can fathom of a painting a myriad of cultivating analogies and synergistically bring forth a new that could not have transpired should the very act not taken place. Retrospectively, the rendering of an image in a gallery, such as images go therein, for the purposes of an example do not evote the type of sentiment, deep desire, or resonating contemplative effort that a real one does -not in this day and age of the 21st century that is.

I must, perhaps should, and clearly will attempt a new method to resolve this failing desire that resides deeply within my essence, in my being. I am not I, in as much as I was once I can no longer see that, and understand I am not he, for he I do not know as he is another altogether, and cannot be you, because you are dead.

As I stare into the empty mirror, my empty thoughts racing towards the obscurity of it all, I wish to grab hold of something. I don’t believe I ever wished for death. Then my thoughts take me to an even darker place, recollection. In recollection’s alley I walk and bereft of direction I find the agonizing truth behind my previous lie. Truly I did wish for death before, perhaps as I do now. I wonder, what then?

A day in my life.

Depression and I day: 14,569.

I want to escape me. Get out of this vessel that no longer travels and be free of myself. Discontinue once and for all the madness of daily pain and anguish I feel and through it bestow unto others.

I'm incredibly tired. Being myself has earned me the hatred of those I love in times I may most need them. I look up at the sky knowing there is only water vapor expecting no answers from the people's god(s).

My life in ruins inside, with my darkened heart ever so slowly, yielding to a force -myself- that on its destructive and sullen path wishes for release. I am in decadent stride towards the empty fields my life feels itself to be lost in. I'm in a pool of my own grief with thick tears the texture of tree sap which prevent my rise and in its daily struggle, like quick sand, sink me deeper into this oblivion of a life.

I am a deserter of my own will. There is no sentiment in this note. How can anyone understand me now if not before has my desire for betterment been understood? My screams for help, silent as the clamor expressed in dreams has yet to help or save me from my endless fall into an abyss that simply doesn't exist, or if it does, does so only in my broken brain.

I can't gather the strength to leave my son blaming himself for something he has no fault over, or my wife trying to figure out exactly what it is she did wrong; when wrong has no merit here. Especially when the inflicted damage will be a permanent one, a fire scar singed into their brain forever bumpy and ill received....

I feel that I don't, I don't know that I do, I do simply deny, deny my ability, and forlorn: exist.

All which cannot be, is not

     Yes, I hate the past.
     Leave it for the optimist to speak idly of times when and where things happened, as if today was somehow irrelevant. I live enchanted, yet unfazed by the truths that covet to marginalize so many by the attritions we encounter in our daily movements in a chosen direction. These are the condemnations left to us by decades of experience. Having moved in nomadic fashion first, slowly gaining skills to remain efficiently in one place, build it up, and live, until presently we are content with our current status. It's the present. Leaves no room for the past, unless one has a desire for all things nomad.
     The sane contemplation of any subject via the coping spectacles we have devised as our own does in no way measure to what true reality is. Only because the color blind person does not see the green or red lights on a street light is not enough not to let them drive; anyone can go when the masses go and stop in the opposite. Therefore, our inability to see their colorblindedness due to their learned ability does not make them any less impaired. We have chosen a way in which to view the situation and from there it will be difficult to change our perspective.
      As such the mores of society are impaired as well by formed believes that trickle down the precept of the populace where they arise and later come to be shared and replicated through generations. There is a lapse where individuals, suffering a type of recidivism, attempt to usurp the common law or taboos and later revert to their known sanctity-of-being due to the hardships of new environments. This leads to a preponderance of self and culture. But, what about those that succeed and emancipate the thinking of the past and form a new criteria by which to evolve in an evolving environment? Do we not judge them? Why do we result to this? In a village in Mongolia, should we judge, or form harsh deductions of a youth in a family of Shamanists for becoming a Muslim? Hard to fathom such a jump from a very nature-based belief, secular, to one with such ordained structure.
      At that point the loss of customs slowly begins to decay. The assimilation of new things based on new beliefs, environments, people, etc., is or seems inevitable in order to at very least cope with the change. The family of this person, perhaps chosen from the newly chosen group will now begin to perpetuate the newly chosen belief ending one path, the Shamanist, to continue on the Muslim one. A family custome of praying at the required times is begun, doing the necessary yearly rituals, and etc. No advise is any longer sought from the Shaman as to any future endeavors and the replacement of the past is complete.
      Please, do not dare contemplate by mere emotion the loss of customs because humans dare to strive by embracing the things around them in order to exist with comfort in their environment. There is a certain level of absurdity in the thought that in order to be successful one must follow a certain criteria. The hand of individuality where genes are concerned, environment, and choice -per individual preference- vastly influence the direction in which any person will move. We do not solely act because it has been predetermined, but also because of the amount of influential factors that through no coordinated effort come together to entice us to action. Where culture is concerned, choice and further inability to promulgate passed down rituals, beliefs, or other forms of routine-like elements can be further infringed upon by education.
     Learning about your past from the tribe guru around a campfire on a cold night must have been  very influential. The unforgettable tales of warriors hiding, climbing iced cliffs and being blown by nature's breath under below zero temperatures during their climbs to hunt snow leopards.... Fascinating really. The culture expressed to help the young understand the dangers to be faced, the things to do in those situations,  and so much more. All useless to the family no longer living a nomadic life that takes them near high mountain ranges or starvation. Passing down the tales may last a small time, but tales of new games, internet blogs, advances in robotics, neurological technologies, and other subjects will soon fill the table for conversation leaving little if any room for... stories. Is that so wrong? To live in the now?
     Shame abhors the hearts of some who realize that their culture is slowly being tarnished by the infamy of the present; especially when the present is so unique to those living in it, when they have chosen to stay out. What happened to the days when they too were a part and complained that the older adults were so old in thought and could not bring themselves to their level, or to understand them? Why have they forgotten this very important part of the story? If any story should be remembered is that one, how much we strove to be where we are, the treatment given to us, and how we wished it differed. Then we could act on it today. But I hate the past, I derive no meaning from the previous two statements other than they too are obsolete.
     The newly Muslim Mongol goes to the car dealership and asks the attendant, where do you keep the new Camel models? Probably not the best way to get around. It is not best because when you can get around on a train, bus, or car the camel really just impedes progress of all other methods of transportation, and your speedy travel to and from your destination. Some of the mental dystrophia that most of us carry is a sense of resiliency towards the wrong thing. Say for instance that you have a set of foods you are accustomed to eating and because you are in a different country and the food you prefer is not available you decide not to eat. That is what we do with culture. We tell ourselves that it is the one thing we have that makes us who we are, or that is something that only belongs to us, or something other convincing fallacy that perpetuates the dream of living in the past.
     If you can imagine the past as carrying around any type of baggage on your back, you may be in for some ache. Backaches, heel sores, and other related symptoms come to mind after carrying any one thing over a significant distance or period of time. Imagine you were carrying a bag without knowing the contents, as it usually happens with culture. Usually we don't explore the depths of the culture we claim to be hours, the beginning, middle, and end, the concepts, beliefs, practices, we only seem to know a tidbit here and there that someone told us. Even so, we convince ourselves that tidbit is the most important part of who we are. Imagine you carried that bag of intrigue and vague knowledge your whole life and then gave it to your children for them to carry and do the same. At any one moment the correct thing to do would be to open the bag and peek into it at the very least. What makes less sense is the perpetuation of culture or any other idea(l) just because someone told you, even after you have become of age and have the know-how to investigate the validity of the claim posed upon you.
     Individuality, as expressed earlier, takes precedence when decision making allows the individual to either accept that a next step is necessary to move forward, or that no movement is necessary. To think only of oneself when attempting to rationalize the presence we as individuals impart on the world or others before committing to an action appears brutally ignorant. The presence of any one thing influences or vagrantly diverts attention from a goal and it is then constituted as a part of that individual's posterity. This must be clearly understood in order to better ascertain the nature of movement in culture from a past that may have lost value and relevance, to new etiquettes that if adopted can maximize the elements of any whole through individual gratification.
     When an elitist in any group of society sets out to prove the relevance of their societal power which may be losing strength due to its ancient views, dogma, and practice of ideals in an ever-evolving and advancing present, we meet the irony that is ignorance. There is no better water in a sea, for all water is alike; especially when you hate the sea. In other words, in a world where humanity is a microcosm and all that is different is unknown to the individual parts, the representation of the whole should be that we are in fact a whole, a people, and beyond that it can be explained through individuality. The segregation of groups, naming conventions for individual preferences, and other means of divide only provide a platform for hate to be bred and further professed amongst others. As shown, due to the particular desires of an individual's need being separate from the whole, and the whole not being immediately humoured by those, they can change. The ideal of difference, the unilateral significance of self can be explained briefly as a position which because it harbors the necessity to prove something, show something, keep something, retain something, and what's worse, record something for later observation it cannot be good. The selfish act that amounted to the record of the ideal(l) now recorded will later serve as the pivotal stand from whence others will learn. Furthermore, the self, one cannot be doctor, electrician, plumber, architect, manufacturer, driver, supplier, etc., we have a potential reliance on the whole because we are Humanity not Lone-anity. How are we to advance much further without looking, studying, and understanding the things we have here now if we pay them no mind because we're so busy with yesterday's things?
     The question of who we are cannot be answered solely by the experiment that our ancestors begun with us giving us baggage to carry through generations. Surely it wasn't baggage, it protected us in an age where we only had one another. Yes it spoke of dangers in times when we had to rely on ourselves for trials of adulthood. I agree that it helped foster respect for elders and position, but at the loss of fostering self awareness, self worth, and other attributes. It is understood that to control the populace, prevent rebellion, and etc., a leader will mold a message in order to better serve the whole, and that is understood. Again, bringing us back full circle to those values and cultural beliefs being obsolete and irrelevant in the current world stance.
     The present, not affected by the past, or is it? A past filled with hate, desire, impartiality, passion, violence, and the inability to adjust not the moral standards of behavior, but the views on what new standards ought to be is too chaotic to preserve substance. The ambiguity in how values can be interpreted gives way to changing elements that transform something that used to be one way into something entirely different. Think of it as if it were a memory, the more you access it, the more it changes. It doesn't change because you want it to change, not necessarily, it changes because of all the circumstances surrounding the event in which the memory was accessed. Were you upset, happy, alone, hungry, etc., and when those sensations and feelings interact with those of the memory, they become a part of it. Next time when you attempt to retrieve the memory again, it'll be more easy to access because it has more data attached to it, and possibly that data has changed it. The same happens with cultural values. The events that foster the perpetuation of the festivals are mild enough. There are people involved, and committees, and other elements of the government. For instance, your culture may call for that dance to be performed naked or under the influence of the smoke from a plant that has now been deemed a drug, but we cannot have naked people dancing around town square breathing drugs. Generationally, the more people see it, the more that disappears, and becomes the new norm.
     Moving right along to the irony that bring us here, the past meeting the present. There is no time. It is all relevant in that we can speak of it, but irrelevant in that one cannot be present without the other, and furthermore that the illusion of a future is simply best served without either. We attempt, rudely very often, to cling to things we wish were our own, although our own things seldom can help us in any meaningful way. The past is not a good teacher because it is lost, gone, and often forgotten, not to mention obsolete. Usually the only people remembering it is you. Letting go, is not simple. Reality always finds a place where it no longer matters, because it doesn't. It is over. What was relevant, no longer is. We have moved on. Nothing lasts eternally.
          Think not of past things you yearn for the benefit they brought upon your life for they no longer compare to what through experience can bring you the same joy today. We grow, we learn, we understand, and with that understanding we decide that living life is simpler and much savvier than we at any one point. Life does not exist, life is you, you do not exist, you are dead, you are dead because we are born to die, and we are born to die because all which was is, all that is can no longer be, and all which cannot be, is not.