Poetry in motion

 It's been a while since I posted,  and my prior posts are too angry.  That was probably when I was going through my identity crises,  which I still am going through of course.  Conclusion:  Science explodes,  Philosophy recedes.  You truly appreciate a deep person when you see their coral reefs after emerging from their abyssal planes,  does darkness have more depth than light?  Some of what frightens me also makes me curious in contradiction.  

The history of eternity to me is a lonely hall of frozen relics buried in permafrost traditions, the contemplation of it terrifies me to stupefaction. I think epiphanies vary by which ones you decide are worth leaving from the contemplation of eternity for. 

Here is a more poetic section of the 250 page word document on my computer. 

 We live within a moist aquamarine pearl saturated in life amidst beryl seas of dark quintessence, an oasis in the cold black and blue, where city lights mimic effervescing stars,  and flickering wonder in the eyes of protosimian lovers. The prime entheologian bathes in the beauty of such a precious microcosm, like the sacred pool of spheres in a cosmic kingdom, rippling with lightsource,  visceral in experience. But  hear us now! the cries of the unheard below, fleeting memories facing time and space. The songs inscribed into the Paleolithic fountain, golden hieroglyphs spill from her palms curling in efflorescent essence. Yet woe for the angst of space and her anticipating multitude, so far within as so few without. The center is among us, passing through  and stopping by. The heart in her chest is like the sieve of our existence.  How I long to be woven into those sinews of experience, but I relinquish at the sight,  in fear of the magnitude. To live of love and die for meaning,  beseeching my purpose yet I'm whisked away by passion on tidal auroras. What does human mean? To be down to earth yet be so divine? Who invented divine says the pink sacred vine? I wish to sing for all the unheard voices if they should utter but a sound. 

Repressed anger soon turns to maniacal laughter.

Sometimes there are no screams loud enough to match the ones inside my head.

Kold

The Cryptic passage that shows you bliss,  the trip of trips you could not miss.
 the body disappears in an electric sea
Every thought you thought you had or ego held
Is turned on its head the preconceptions bent and shaped
It is comforting and silently killing pains
The cold white crystals cut nasal membranes
The crackling of freezing air and rattling bones
The dark passage,  the dying walk of the Shaman
I have caught glimpses of the great beyond
buried beneath the frozen wasteland
but it has etched death into my face

I have been given a glimpse through the eye of God
but a chilling gaze into the eye of the devil
The unforeseen orchestra behind cold moonlit sheets
Encoding the Rhythm of my last breathes
Stolen time is weaved into the present
where a person could walk a labyrinth curled up inside a bed
where it seems eons have passed flying in the sun
When asleep in the dark
What does it cost to overcome a material experience?
A material existence,  and Everything else. . . . . . . .

This paragraphs name is Oocanopterus

I love that we have names for every little thing in Science.  When you think about it, all the tangible things we have are just different arrangements governed by their oscillations and interactions.  But regardless of these things we have names for each size and identifying shape of each and every thing that arises from these interactions. A grain of sand is a grain of sand but many grains of sand is a beach,  how many grains does it take to make a beach?   The key here is "identifying"  We give these collected objects and scenes around us an identity that we can sometimes agree on.  Yet as human beings we seem to identify with everything but ourselves,  because we are the "identifiers"  The Identifier shouldn't identify  himself.  This is where the desire for a god comes in,   we want to be identified by something larger that can explain to us who we are better than we feebly try to do ourselves.  This also gives us a purpose in a way. 

Epilogue to the beginning

(^Latter edit:  warning,  this is drunk speak.) I am plagued with a big question tonight,   or maybe I lied. . . . .  Two big questions tonight.  One of them is as follows:  what summarizes having lived as a middle class citizen in Colorado?  As I have always said before a good question is answered with more questions and in light of that one question that springs to mind is this:  Why would that be a big question?  All that summarizes middle class in America is over priviledged,  overfed,  white trash with a little more value to make us white knick knacks,  the kind you don't throw away but keep in a closet as a dust collecting agent,  these kind of things summarize this existence and you cannot blame anybody for trying to get away from all that.  I am one of many who feels that a plastic society is not the kind we should be placing over our heads,  and don't worry more loosely connected analogies will be abundant in my writing.  But Gah! I want to lose this whiny voice for a little bit. (I realize using onomatopoeia such as "Gah" doesn't help,  and I also realize that neither does pointing out that they are an onomatopoeia does either. And believe me I used spell check on that word.) 

 When did it become such a phenomenon that me saying I want to get out of this place has become a foreign concept to the people around me?  My first guesses are that it happened when all the dreamers such as I left,  and all the realists stayed put.  How silly to call them realists when they limit themselves with realism to the point of where they believe their physical body isn't capable of physical outings because it never has been,  it takes a moronic drive to athletically push oneself,  this is one of life's easiest lessons to learn.  It cannot be done is all I hear.  It all cannot be done,  everything I want cannot be done.  I'm tired of being everyone's pet insane artist,  I want to make them realize that what I do has a lot of weight.  I would rather have a giant impact or none at all and this is a very vital period of my life to decide which one to be.  It seems I avoid the daylight to spill myself out in these ungodly hours because I am afraid to look at myself for who I am,  a naked man too afraid to admit he is the entertainer of the mob.  What is my purpose?  To show people the trees when they are looking for the forest.  Goodnight and goodluck readers not-abroad. Btw this piece was done on a computer for all the assholes that have to know. ^

everything happens for a reason. (