The Reality of My Thoughts

Perched on the shoulder of the shadow was the irony that granted power, discord, and the mess of confusion in my brain. There resting, ever-so-devilish, the silhouette of a being known through descriptions, stories, and children cartoons, but never the real that brings order to the chaos of the brain. What is it to see yet not understand, stare and be confused, and finally in organized thought discern that reality on the body’s shoulder and the reality on the shadow could not be intertwined.

Strange to achieve or arrive at conclusions that although mirror of one another, yet could not be more dissimilar in all their elements. The rationale of the known ends on a very thin veil of trust we place on entities that in studious affairs spend longer than most of us would care attempting to decipher ,in their human state, secrets so hidden and removed from the sensed reality that all they are left with doing is but to grasp at the possible.

I am, yet what am I? What is the claim and why is the question? I know what I know, but do not know what I do not. This claim, as with so many others, attest to the individual’s trust that they know some things, but not others. Individuals who attest their incredulity towards certain things. These individuals are different, in all respects, to those who argue elements of testimony as firm statements of fact. The existence of a being called a god and furthering their view, one whose trust comes from faith. The argument resonates with some. That is to say that something I cannot see, explain, or understand exists. I cannot argue with that, after all, atoms at a time were in the same plane of understanding. Also, that is to say that something I love, although I do not know what love is -other than my own interpretation- and therefore is real. We accept the truths these beliefs yield, because we arrive at them with the little knowledge we possess. The problem lies in not furthering that knowledge once it is achieved. It is as if the record of the existence of a things is as good as the knowledge that it actually is or is not despite our emotional attachments to any formed thought once evidence for the contrary is found.

The darkness of the shadow, the detail of the entity, with the ferociousness with which tree and leaf around me moved to the dancing of the wind in its turbulent comings and goings, yet it stood there undisturbed. A détent between knowledge and reason clamoring for an end to the farce postulated by sight.

So much of the world we cannot understand without first listening or reading from an expert of the particular subject. Does that stop us or our brain from juxtaposing, interpolating, or simply deriving from similar data stored in the recesses of our brain in order to quickly acclimate to the reality in front of us?

I turn, but as I do prostrated, the effigy upon the visual vessel burnt does not move… no, it stands there in staring solace and the turpitude of my bewildered emotions, as if fixed upon my gaze with the strength to suffocate the freedom of my charisma through its brazen act.

Behind me, buildings, street lights, and the unaltered crowds of the night, all here to see the statues here placed, some of which given the light source become the reality of my thoughts.