Saturday, March 25, 2017

Surrey Hills

Yesterday, I suddenly became inflicted with a nasty stomach virus; with a harsh fever-migraine combo to boot. Aches, pains - further literal impact than anything has had on me in quite some while. As someone who is often a touch sleepless and groggy, feeling the unbridled downpour of difficulty that is a legitimate sickness comes as a bit of a smack in the face. It really reminds you just where you stand, in more than one sense.

Late into the night, surrounded musically by a melancholic drift as the credits rolled from yet another animated feature stuttering across the empty television screen, I found myself equally half awake. Still drowned in the mental blur of a long, draining day, but far more aware than at any previous point. I was stuck in the cage that is the dead of the night, as I all too often am; though having the shackles of a worn skeleton and torn build made the moon all the more cold.

Oversaturated in my yearn for tranquility - a feeling I'd have cited as a prime example of melodrama in previous accounts of nausea - I immediately grabbed hold of a contrast to the peacefully strained holding area I seemed to be in. Writing frantically among what had become an empty black, I poetically devised what was to be my most brief, yet possibly most encompassing piece of anecdotal reflection yet; a summary of the existential thoughts I have drawn myself back to.

Knowing we all face the evils within us. Each smiling, innocent face; harboring the disease. Sin controlling each and every momentary thought, being the hand that pushes us off the cliff we precariously balance upon. Twisting our wind-up gears, aiming us to pitter patter into the depths of hell.

Where are we; in that our worst nightmare is our popular nature. Who put the chemicals in the food chain.

Rather than an assertion or realization, it is a fallacious question with an answer both too complex and too indefinite to properly explain. A literal interpretation rather than any sort of building expose.

The following day, crawling a touch late to the beaming starlight, I can't help but feel a small touch of chagrin. Festering in a cave of spiraling mysticism, a creature forcibly locked away from the world for fear of it's unbridled oddness. So vehemently clutching it's fears, hatreds, and inhumane sensibilities, it becomes a schizophrenic shell containing naught but condensed explosions of instability. Who rolled the stone before his cavern, none do tell; whether the peoples of the village saw his vain eccentricity, or whether he himself saw their colorless superficiality. Walking into the fields of an entirely forgotten, and thus fundamentally new world; something some may dream of. Something only one who has faced a trial of observational introspection may observe; skin-covered eyeballs, blood-coated mouth and grossly gooey skin shimmering uncharacteristically majestically in the glow.

I feel chagrin in that trial. Still rubbing my cheek from a violently abrupt slap, I become the polar opposite of what I may have been. A child realizing his err; but coping, and understanding. Realizing precisely what he did wrong - while still aware that upfront punishment is among the few ways he'd have ever learned. A regret for ever having to tumble in so many ways. Yet, rather than trample further, I begin to see another ray of hope beyond the blinding revelations with which the burning sun has unscathed. Fault is as much in our nature as is the ungodly hand of Sin. It is what catches us from the precipice, and pulls us on to the next range. The landing is not easy; neither is the ride, nor the leave. But it is the sole assistance we have in recuperating from the evil we perform, and witness.

In what is perhaps the finale of my loosely continual slog of non-specifically pragmatic criticisms of nature, reality, and the demons that haunt whatever we may call our world, I feel a spiritual gust empowering me to end on a note properly alternative. Not one to solve each investigation - far more encompassing. Far less thematically impure. One that reflects rather than destroys.

There is darkness in us; we float within it as does a soulless rowboat among a graveyard of grimy seaweeds. It darts about, as do the flies - latching to the poor sailor's tangy skin, extracting his deeply intoxicated blood with nary a ponder concerning his well being. For this indifference is their temperament, as it is ours. But as he is tortured little by little, the sailor manages to heave forth. He has little strength, but sees the shore. He has come so far; the death and destruction he dove from now undoubtedly corpse-filled relics beyond the deepest reaches of the ocean. He rows on - rowing, rowing, rowing - beheading the weeds, displacing the flies. It is not an act of ignorance, for he is quite aware of his dishonorable survival; but one of enlightenment. As he eventually slides across the sands of an undisclosed Valhalla, he stares back to what was. No longer is there suffering, but merely the distorted visages of the marshes he struggled past. Their odorous clouds carry strong, but the issue was passed. He may have little - or, perhaps, the treasure itself. He may not know where to wander - or, very well, he could be the explorer destined to forever inhabit these forgotten ruins. He is anew. He shall never face a struggle as treacherous, for it is dead and decomposed. His spirit - free of the constant drunkard delusion that was his tortured self - enters the gates, of which he so long dreamed.

Better to float on. Better to smile. Better to hold on to the soul that has helped you here; and keep growing.

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