Wednesday, May 27, 2015

Process and Progression

I spent some time talking with Mosey, a local member of a local Amish community around where we live now.  He is a very fascinating person, and I find that talking with him I recapture some of that old feeling of being the observer.  I like that, and it reminds me that I can still be outside the self, apart from the people.

People used to fascinate me.  They used to be something I would find interest in, but only from a distance.  When I let them get close it destroys the effect, and I have to feel, and that makes it difficult to remain objective.  Objectivity is of utmost importance to me, it allows me to see better, and not be involved with the vision.  I think that may be a psychopathic tendency that is latent in everyone, it only is recognized in some, and in others it can be hyper active, but they do not do well in this world generally, or really well, if they are in the right social cycles.

I am careful to understand myself as much as anyone else, so as to ensure that I will not fall into the wrong trap, and this is part of that process.

No I do Not Know Where This Leads Down

Careful thoughts have gone into this, that I know not of, wonder where it leads, from end to end and if this fantasy that appears like reality is really what it seems.

I have listened to the heads of one side and the heads of the other, with very little conclusive results.  There is no God, but that does not negate the existence of gods, such as they are.  Through all of this the use of darkness as a metaphor is often overused, and I do not believe that it signifies much beyond the absence of light, the visible light.  What used to be easy to see, has been clouded by perception and perhaps even by age and cynicism.  Maybe I have chosen to cease to believe in something that at one time appeared to be more real, but not seems like there is no evidence of it at all.  Yet there is still that niggling of a feeling that I am certain that there is something I have forgotten, that only awaits my awaking from the slumber I have chosen to live within.

It became rather difficult to continue then to continue, as so much was focussed on the mundane and sublime, and I had a life I needed to live, that resembled that which was a model for the reality that was then regarded as the fantasy.  It has taken many years now for me to re-focus my mind, but it becomes such slowly, as I view the end of my current existence, and wonder have I wasted too much of it trying to appear as I am not, just so I would not appear as I am.

So much has consumed me, taken away my thoughts, and left me with little to believe, so that now all that exist is the question of existence at all.  In what world do we exist at all, is it all just an image in our head now, forever a motion picture show.  If it is why is it that I did not see it as such before?

In both the realms of possible and improbable there exist the most likely, and that is where the picture is very out of focus anymore.

I question the motive of this god of which you speak of, as it is not the god I would follow, and yet there is no path I would follow intentionally.  As the dawn turns to evening on this run, I realize that our paths are as marked as we choose to believe them to be.

Did my attempt to see so much turn to a blindness to that which before me stood.  Did I become so jaded that I no longer could see the possible as possible, and the likely as anything other than that which is most likely to be or others, but not for me.

My mind wonders but I can not think.  There is something here that is thicker than the ink, it troubles me that I am under such a spell.  Silence seems the rue the day, and I know it well.

Held as lewd and too storied to hear the peel of voices in my head and resounds around the echoes of memories that somehow believed to be not what they once were.  I know not the truth as it was, but as it seems today to be.  It is grossly overestimated, and it means very little to me.  I feel the slight of something that lingers yet in the shadow of the morning yet to come.  If only I knew his name, I would give it and dispel the this fog of war that lingers still.

Now as truth comes, it is sullen and not of perfected form.  The ash and birch wilt while the evergreen slowly trembles in pain.  I've seen this device and it will be used onced again, with results nearly the same.  Consumed in fire once, the last of the watchers fade into pages of tombs that no longer can be read.

Lingering between sleep and awake, trying to hear the voices that once fought for my mental state.  I do not care what people think, they hold no meaning to me now.  I can not feel them in this place, they are away and somehow more distant than before.

Can we no longer see the truth that before us lay?  Is it far too distant in the past the power we once knew but have since laid to rest for personal gain?  Is the pursuit of our own doing our undoing and given this are we already too late?  What remains of the energy we once grasped glimpses of, before the fall of all that was worthwhile went away?  Have they abandoned us, or us them?

I have no answers or even questions that remain.


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