I know it isn’t easy to be uplifted these days. All the more reason to get out there and offer people home. We must get beyond the petty antics of others, a challenge when those we put in power embody the worst of humanity. But never mind. Speak truth to power and keep fighting the good fight, waving your sword of righteousness and powering through.
What trips up most people is the feeling they should have more. As if the people we see on television conspicuously consuming have it all sewn up on some level. They don’t. Most people who are glutted by materialism struggle for happiness. Those of us who have aced that particular test, slayed that very dragon, need nothing from the material world. We know where our true riches lie.
One must feel themselves going in a direction and not feel stuck. Momentum is the natural state. I think of my friends with fame and fortune. I see them mainly taking to social media to shove it down others’ throats. Why they need that I can only wonder. To want nothing is true bliss. To count ones blessings and enjoy the here and now is our birthright. To do good works is the only job you have.
I harken to the days of peaceful surrender. I want all of life to be that. And I feel very strongly that it can. I wish to tend my own garden peacefully and if I can’t do it thus then it is not my plot—double entendre intended. I have all that I need and I wish for nothing. I will move seamlessly from this place to that but my home shall be immutable. The news of the world will not enter here. Not until the last bomb drops or the last slave is free. I cannot hold any truth to be self evident but for the right of freedom.
The leaf falls, the crow splashes in what’s left of the birdbath. The white rose turns pink as it passes away. I dreamed of swimming in the ocean, riding waves, popping up to see I was very near a large slick black seal. I saw shadows in the water presumed to be sharks and I awoke. I was unafraid in my own shallow waters.
I can pass through. I will arrive and I will stay and I will leave. Nobody will be affected by me and that is for the best. I cannot manufacture feeling and I can not solicit love. I can only move from moment place, one room, one road at a time. I will snake through the cobbled streets of Paris slick with rain, my heels clacking. I will have walked this path before. I won’t see anything new. I will sip wine and dissolve into the cool surrounding stone. I will be now like the spirit I will become.
I will leave the world behind. This world. This godforsaken place devoid of spirit. I will find myself a corner, like the Cathars, in some land made holy by my sole belief. I will sit in the golden glare of grand cafés longing for the return of cultures that killed themselves with smoke and ask: What is the equivalent of future longing in my present lifetime? For now I cannot see it. My postmodern mind purchased the test answers from a sketchy character. I will slip behind buildings and find that door, that secret entrance where, in a gold lamé gown, one breast exposed, she bids me welcome with ominous laughter while her partner counts the heads with prices attached.
Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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