” Anyone with only a week to live will not find it in his interest to believe that all this is just a matter of chance..”
“Experience shows us an enormous difference between piety and goodness.”
-Blaise Pascal , Pensees.
“The meaning of it is unknown,
Or else I fear entirely mine.”
- Robert Frost, A Missive Missile, from A Further Range
A week of fever and no dreams,
a week without a bath in heaven,
without nepenthe ,
no drunkard of ethereal need can be greeted with such a dearth of night cerebration,
The winds are like water doused flames touching your skin, fluid humidity,
as if with gills I breathe,
everything is verdure and amalgam, as muggy as the moral fabric of Nero’s rome,
as blasphemous as the Early Church, as Vile as the New Cheaper Church,as as as an as can be.
There is a new horse,
ebon like an Orphic Greek vase, its mane a ruddy crimson fading into sable,
All seems pale,
the grass overwrought, the pond depleted, the mare turns her head away, a turtle scurries beneath a growth of moss.
Men mill about on the roads and in the buildings of cities,
winds blow, years pass,
how men convey themselves and express themselves is all that differs, a static existence modeled on mimicry,
men: merely different metals some less polished, and the grey carpet of concrete which the four rubber tired beast pushes him down, literally combusting as he goes monkey-ishly about his day , is pocked and pimply with a forgotten interest in infrastructure,(governments as children who grow disinterested in projects and let them crumble to dust ) ,the trees lining it aggressive ,
often cut back, they too want to live.
And always there are the sounds of a hot country , so fermy is the new summer, positively third world, a teeming wilderness , not a virginal dew strewn plain, an experienced woman of nature taking all comers, you can smell her yearning in the wind, hear it in the howl of unseen night beasts, one draws the shade against it, makes ones cave cooler, flees from such violent encouragement, suffers deliriums, sweats in bed.
I turn the air down a modicum, it never stops blowing, all is ice indoors in the south this time of year,
the windows covered in condensation intensifying the feeling of trapped animalism one suffers after eating a meal,
just being in such an environment, knowing how the heat is out there,
breathing and waiting like a hunter, it will get you, it will turn you choleric yet, trees as earths exposed viscera, leaves as ganglia, thoughts of primitive summer minds, the deer run free and are un-hunted,
the fridge is full and I am starving.
Freedom to some is not being held in any way by another, never looking at themselves, the primary chain bearers, they lounge in a kiddy pool and call it the height of expression. One day ill burn all my papers. Ill use them to start my funereal pyre, my pagan ceremony becoming the norm, committed by Christian and Unbeliever alike.
There is a violence in unknowing and we suffer because of it, but no one knows….