The Bad News is the Good News-
The rich world of poor people is at display here every day. But you don’t know it. So you struggle, seeing enemies where there’s none. The poor world of rich people is also on display. Fortifying fears. Preempting losses.
Avoiding life, death ensues. Regret is a flower that blooms late. If at all it manages to bloom. There is suicide. And there is death cursed with a long, long life.
Now hunting meaning, one becomes a hunter. A seeker. Collecting knowledge. Trying to steal wisdom. But you cannot find it in a library. It cannot be documented. One cannot borrow it. Read it. Return it. Become it.
Your book of life is empty. The pages, blank. Nothing writ. No manuscript. Unbound. Free.
But you try. Using words to paint a picture. Tell a story. Plotting it. Twisting it. Turning it. Making it dramatic. Melodramatic. But in the end an effect is just an effect. Wearing off. Reality begins when you leave the theater. If that. If prepared. If willing.
It’s a mocking story, with the middle-finger raised in your face. An old conversation resuscitated to quell the quiet. A familiar tragedy, with brand new faces. Just born. With dire discourse, telling you to take up old recourse.
The question is what happened after you were born? The answer is you learned to become a Strawman. Substituting reality.
The old city lives in new stories. I’m here, one amongst many, walking the stubborn old path of self-discovery. Two very funny words playing a serious game of hide and seek. It’s all bleak. The path of least resistance is at war. Rebellious. The battle rages on. Ceasefire is a dirty state of being. And all of this unfolds in the head. Brain-dead, mind wants to mine everything. Want everything. The pit is dug. The leap taken. Yet it does not end. You come back and repeat every little feat.
The old city used to be affluent. Rich. Independent. Now here it lies- poor and destitute. The gold is gone. The glitter jaded. Storied past faded. It’s made up of stories. From its crumbling ruins to its deserted banks. Nothing left to shore.
There are days, weeks and at times, months that pass me by, stealthily, if I’m aware of their movements, and quietly, if I am not. Either way they both bring about the same message, that indeed there is no time. There is no time. That whatever time is left is imaginary. It’s in our minds. It’s in our heads. And like pretty much everything else in your life, nothing is really real in that mental terrain. In the deep abyss of the muddy unconscious, life-aquatic is a ghostly construct. And on the other end, a shallow surface. Incapable of exploration.
Enter paranoia. The first and last response. Reactionary. Habitual. Safe. And ultimately redundant. Do you now weave another story, or weep, for lack of one? Either way you are wasted. It’s all come to nothing. Naught. The horizon is bereft. Empty.
And in a long, long time, this is the first good news you’ve had.
Dark night lights up in dawning tones
Moon’s filling up moon
Sun’s shining on the other side
Spaced-out full-halves of a brightening wholesome night
The great-void comes alive with expression
Many of them bear spontaneous looks
Like these old songs singing to me in voices I know and hear
Stoking old-memories and forging new-ones
Memories remembering memories dissolving back into a sea of memoirs
Footprints come to life
Frozen times come to a thaw
What was emerges seamlessly with what is
Looking for meaning is a mischievous-game of open hide and seek
The river of life never once separated from the great-ocean of bliss