Saturday, September 29, 2012
When those engines began to roar in a time long after the din of pogroms died, I began to awake. The seeds of anger and realization like slow tendrils spreading in the
dirt of dark pasts and splitting the rocks of ignorance. I have always been I, but always wayward, twisting and sounding into the deep pelagic swirl of emotion and depth,
reaching to embrace some closed heart.
Is that need or want?
And is that desirous or needy?
An epic convolution dwells deep and powers the kernel of my rage, for I never needed, but always did at a point beyond incept. Nor do I want until want is born, and of that birth comes need, but in the wayward rearing of want and need, I'll dismiss need and walk away from want. For I am I and will accept no further personal dissolution. For the deep ocean of endeavor, blue and black, stirs at levels unfathomed. It's numerous creatures, those sonorous behemoths, singing out for the aeons of my eternity in confusion, and now realizing the lie: No other ocean has wants in line with it's need. So their hearts blacken with the tumult of deceptive winds and thier sorrows multiply as thier waters
grow brackish and their needs beach themselves on the shores of stormy seas.
The beauty of depth becomes the trap of depth when the knowledge of that deep depth is revealed.
And the beauty of realization is the knowledge that most will not hold precious your need and therefore don't deserve your desire.
But the final grasp of power is the developed ability to push aside unfortunate bond, as no one moves in parallel with storm unaffected, and no clean thing is left untouched by the filth of internal dissonance. It's the inhabitants of the honestly needful bodies that are sickenend by the brackish waters of inward strife. The sweet souls of those loving whales crying in the leagues at the eternal dashing of concern displayed.