For good reason, i have not had the urge to write for a long time, only to read deeply and drink deeply the draught which i’d let consume me.  But i cannot do this, it is a betrayal of thought to not reciprocate, even if the reciprocation is merely with the self or with possible future claimants who needed the reflections you fill pages with, however aimless they may seem to you.  For instance: who would have thunk of the importance of the  writings of Saxo Grammaticus, Bede etc. and yet they resonate as some of the clearest ganderings into a region of time which is unlit by the ambience of definition.

However, it is difficult to write down what is all around you, the perversion of the modern always seems an shackle to those who feel they are in  circumstances as of yet unheard. But i look back and  see only a difference in tools.

I fear my grasp of politics in my nation is gone, but i believe it is the same for the politicians, they merely reiterate.  They now play a dangerous game, a game many dead Roman Senators played, and double digits of greek Tyrants , they move more vast crowds than have ever before been assembled in ways as base as they have always been.  I used to be disgruntled by these men, but i believe television characters now have more legitimate power over the minds of people, and the producers who feed these characters to the people are like terrible stagehands on an theatrical production doomed to consummate an odd marriage between reality and fiction.

The very purpose of this is to digress, maybe i’ll think of what i’ve been reading lately, a smattering of Fantasy novels and short fiction, finishing Fermor’s second book of his trilogy Between the Woods and the Water ( a sort of interesting travelogue, ethnography book) , The Letters of the Younger Pliny, Plutarch’s Lives off and on, a new translation of Thucydides, and most recently an Oxford hardback copy of Gwyn Jones quintessential book, A History of the Vikings, wonderfully annotated and filled with maps and foot-notery as only the best books are.   So incredible is the continuity, not the fractiousness of human history. It is simply miraculous that so many at such times didn’t despair, that always there was one recorder, regardless of the temper of the Earth, or the gall of Caesars. Like a drum steadily beating  a rhythm , often discordant but prevalent in the hearts of all bipedal aspirants.

I have been a close friend to death  in ways which bear no discussion as of now, but have effected my abilities as far as my expression . Things when bereft of purpose or with a light shone darkly on them, an incisive reminder of loss , make it strenuous to share with others. Ive come to wish to be left alone, but also my ape like need for societal emotional confirmation is redolent on my skin, in my breath, these very words reek of it.   Part of the purpose i suppose of writing is to remove these delinquent thoughts ,which have no raison detre  in a mind dedicated to truth, or whatever constricted viewpoint of the truth i’m allowed to glance in my breaths expenditure. So what then? Will i be free after this? I doubt it, i’m sure i was already free. Like Montaigne says and this is a summation No one feels sorry for the man with the cure up his sleeve.

Odd this reclamation of ideas constantly going on, a very deluge of things i’ll never get to enjoy, but honestly that is what makes the process so incredibly edifying , the fortuity of all things. To this end even loss of what one loved becomes a lesson which might enrich life, even if not in the present instance.

i feel it is important to be instructed ethically by what appear to be the mere whims of fate but can take on a personality all their own if given to someone with imagination and great fears of recognition, for realization is the root of fear. Always a middle way to navigate, for if you deny the spirit you risk merely becoming another kind of fool, but if you deny logic and human rationale, then you repeal a part of your being as if it didn’t effect you , but it does, the denial will grow quietly like a boil in your skin and burst whether you give it a glance or not. I’ve since grown better at the excision of these boils and the acceptance that i know little if anything, but what i do know should be both beautifully and practically applied to the work of existence. This task, an odd one, seems to be the only one i can see.

And now as the darkness of the night waxes and i write this, looking back at today like a scavenger seeking remnants to achieve some synthesis, i know nothing of what i have written, it is as if i witness an purging of someones thoughts other than my own and stand aghast at it. The readings in my histories strike me as all too similar, i begin to have the feeling of a changeling, some malleable animal that alters its mind just enough to slip from its present.  But there is a pleasure in this, it is better than seeking in the night like a fool with no lantern, better than lying and clasping ones chest.

Ill health can change a person, can make them both depreciate and appreciate much around them. My health lies on grounds unsounded by science, i stand outside the realm of feasible folk with valid opinions, and so the enigma of this both frees and enslaves me.  Pain , both a burden and a tool, has branded me, and i spend each day learning to maneuver with it as dancers with fine tuning would do. One day my enemy will overtake me, as of yet i have feinted from his presence so often i forget that the waltz will end.

This period of existence is so strange. My friend is texting me on my telephone from Kenya as he goes on a Safari while the moon is just a hint in the sky to him, i can see it blood red and cloud ridden out of my window with Venus scarletlly in tow. And yet there is no gap in communication other than the one we would wish by our own inadequacy for social exposure.  The curse and blessing is simultaneous . I feel often like we were left unattended and unequipped and for no reason by nothing for no thought at all. I also feel like we were inveighed with an inimical need to supplant foolishness with goodness and a spiritual destiny, but these things run contrariwise to one another.

My great fear is that men will continue to cease to live, merely because of the fact that fear, something which can be conquered rules us. But it is a thing which lives only because of us. For I know of broken chains dangling and much of them. I know of the harbinger in the night, the lurking pain which might or might not be. The sting of an insect so heavy it bears all of the weight of our heroes, its exoskeleton reeling from the pressure.  I know of being on this sphere to such a degree, that all attempts at subterfuge in rationale strike me as children’s toys. And yet i am so naive as to be surprised by fate when it does what i wish not, when i want not. So foolish to invoke a God and see only myself and what i lack. I often wonder what i’ve supplanted, what migratory pattern i’ve fit, if anything i do is more than a movement in some vast diorama used as an descriptive tool in a higher realm. I wonder at feeling an animal, almost a skinchanger playing at something. Is it madness to feel such a way, or is it madness to say this is the way? I lean towards both.

How does one end what  one has never begun? I sought to speak of things eloquently but merely spoke of myself, but i wonder if ever i had any purpose but that. I wonder if eloquence is brought on by the need to self discover or to dwell painfully in depths of consciousness one would rather not dwell painfully within. I curse my wordiness and ability to slay myself before words and act as if i spoke true because i love the way it bleeds across a page like a war wound of victory achieved by an hoping sub-text warrior in an Asiatic prophecy, doomed to failure. But then i know, because of the sound of the thunderous night behind me that what i have done is bone good, my molecules sing in it, a vivification of value , immersed in the forced evaluation ensuing from baptismal word fire.

I will sleep again despite my fear of no breaths coming to me. Despite my father recently immersed in the earths brown all-sarcophagus. I have broached a subject with the universe which must remain open-ended until i die or witness a change i never expected.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s