The cure for addition,
is not prevention.
Treating addiction,
a path to liberation.
Should people be prevented?
Or should they be liberated?
To feel that liberation,
Requires condemnation.
But colder than rejection.
The curtain of prevention.
What say we, the veil of corporations?
Pray tell us, dear algorithmmm…sss
Sometimes, I think, there is nothing I can think, that hasn’t been thought before, given my circumstances.
But then again, my circumstances are unique. As are all of ours.
But now particularly.
From what I can see, and from what I have been taught…much of all our circumstances have occurred within the peripheral of, all or nothing.
But now I think, I straddle existence between all and nothing – seeing both and seeing that, it’s not a certainty that it is all or nothing. There’s a whole lot in between.
And seeing that there is stuff in between, is only the beginning of forever. Because there’s more infinity traveling towards nothing, than trying to maintain the journey that you see.
So I have learned, not from myself but from life itself, that we are bound to be drawn to nothing. To want, to learn, to know, more about what nothing is.
It seems nothing, is the thing, I want to know about.
‘If’, I think, is the beginning of all journeys.
If a choice exists,
for you to take,
regardless,
of the one you’ve taken.
It’s true that you have taken,
a journey to frustration.
You have no choice,
as to where you’ve travelled.
You have no choice,
becomes unravelled.
Presented choice,
devoid of substance.
I’m substance of,
what will be travelled.
Travelled substance
presented choice,
knows it’s direction
is obvious.
The obvious,
seen regardless.
Despite of all
scenarios.
So choose, despite the obvious
and see, that being curious,
is IF, all over again.
Us people, we bear the cross.
A weight, ourselves have caused.
Seek relief, and suffer loss,
what use, to stop and pause?
No use at all, as we endure
and ponder life unbound.
Endure we must, to be secure
so follow those, claim to be found.
One trait exists, it weaves within,
reveals itself as pure.
Security, in love or sin,
wins both by peace and war.
Peace, hard thing to define;
war is much the same.
Choose, cross carried by Devine,
or freedom’s fight, ourselves to blame.
Age is something plants don’t die of. Continuously reproducing bodies. Back to nothing, a pollinated seedling. Spring green, starts poking out of dead things.
Not dead, but Green’s experience.
Green, seeing death, where it came from, foreseeing his life is succumbing, back to its arrival…and dying.
And Green as we return to, and constantly reminded, it’s possible, by living, We’re dying.
But each Green returning, from more Greens before him, starts seeing, it’s more Greens ahead.
So those that are dead, saw those Greens ahead. Are you dead, seeing the Green that’s beyond, or Green, seeing death, where you’re from?
My present contribution lurks,
all knowing, sat beneath myself.
My-self thought known, itself converts
to fleeting truth by stealth.
That truth appearing, itself a thing
dictated by its finite time.
Ripples caused by fragile wing,
rising, seeking to recline.
Defying life, I strive to fly,
to higher realms, I’m drawn.
Myself beneath it seeks to die,
and memory’s fear, translates to scorn.
But through time’s revelations;
fragmentations of the truth;
the body’s inclinations;
the brief hallucinations;
appears myself a truce.
The grace to know that being free,
depends not on escaping.
Freedom seen occasionally
endures because it’s saving.
Saving precious memories
my present self the killer.
Bodies are like falling leaves,
Life’s elixir, poor caterpillar.
It only matters if I’m looking.
Close my eyes, just me, nothing.
Sometimes, I feel my eyes burning.
They have control that they aren’t yearning.
If I close my eyes, the things they would see, still happen.
Things, without my eyes piercing.
Things, not knowing my eyes be looking.
Having not pierced those things, they be, undetected. Those thoughts continue, undisturbed and unaffected.
And being, having not been affected, to the world, I beckon.
Waiting for attention.
One day a year, that’s all you get.
My age in days, in all my time.
Beyond your years, ’tis with regret,
would take to give you, one of mine.
This might seem like a cunning plan,
to escape my obligation.
But I conclude – it’s rude to cram,
my thanks in finite occupation.
I think my thanks can more be known,
by drawing from the years we’ve spent.
Instead of the thanks you think I’ve shown,
think of the things our time has lent.
Considering this reality,
one day of thanks’ absurdity.
Serves only a calamity,
to undisturbed affinity.
What’s greater still, than both our years,
is this Earth still endures.
And with it lives, transcends our fears,
that thanks endured, secure.
Absolute power, corrupts absolutely.
Power is not granted, it is assumed.
But how is power gained?
Contemplating both well known phrases, an image appears in my mind of the thing called power.
I imagine a very concentrated source of power…and it’s explosive. So dangerous that life itself cannot be near to it. But wouldn’t exist without it. Does life assume it?
Explosive power, spewing out; life absorbing, expanding.
Power spews life – losing and gaining.
If gaining is assuming, what’s left to gain, once assumed?
Well maybe life assuming, dilutes its source of power.
In not granting assumption of power, life’s granted time to gain.
Am I Weird? 