Under what illusions do we lie?
It’s not that we haven’t been given enough life, it’s that we’ve wasted it; as too have we most unintelligently squandered the ample resources we’ve been given. This utter disrespect has shortened our lives, and within that now which is substantially reduced, filled us with anxiety; fast-paced breathing and palpitations with as certification.
Our mind
Our finest resource is our mind; our finest use of life would be in keeping it balanced and stable, and in the discovery of its very own self. The human mind is made of nature too; the proof is that it changes, just as everything in nature does. Forget “mother Nature”; do we even know our own? We make grand motherhood statements to mask our grand illusions.
Yet, we can aspire to, and assume power over our mind and thoughts. We can thereby re-orient and re-order nature. And then lay claim to horror over external events that more often than not affect our lives. This is all our doing. No; this is the real us in this unreal world.
The missiles of our mind
Are we guided, or mis-guided? A quick look at the world around us shows us the very worlds we’ve made. Or have allowed to be made, by beating better reason and our intuitive minds unto comatose death; mere death having likely not sufficed. What on earth were we thinking; if at all?!
Follow me!
It’s often our intention to influence others, to bring them around to buying in to our assumptions. And everything is an assumption, because we know nothing for a fact, save for one; the closure of another chapter when our bodies fall prey to already tired death. Perhaps the Dark Lord has had his fill by now; perhaps it verily seeks that coma.
Oh for crying out loud!
Look around; many who seek support from and succour in the masses do so because of cowardice. Their own fears and insecurities guide their expressions that accumulate crowds. Who will light a candle in that assimilated dark cloud?
.
I’ll wager most don’t want to die alone,
they seek partners in death;
Hold hands and die together,
do let’s!
What will I have for supper,
Before I lay myself to rest?
.
What seeds will I sow?
For as I can raise flowers,
I can too raise weeds;
My words indeed are my seeds.
Ah; I now see,
It is here that you’ve buried me!
.
How else could it be that that though dead,
I can feel the thorns of the weeds;
Not once were my words fragrant,
It wasn’t flowers that I’d put to seed.
I died thinking I was a hero;
Yet here I lay, still shrieking.
.
Love and respect,
Lion~
