- Poetry - The only way out is through
and the only things I thought I knew drift away from my stem like dandelion fuzz on the wind. There’s no point in wishing on flowers, candles, or stars, because as it is with praying to a god we forget how capable we are; that wisdom is the awareness of how little we know; that trees don’t pray or plead, they just grow; they don’t reject the moisture, they just absorb; they don’t fear the darkness, they root down low. No options but death or to dig into me: to see the eternal recurrence to reject a soothsayer’s assurance to slay myself in the search for meaning as a truly meaningless being. Something is rotten in our collective existence when we all together express resistance to the truths that victims aren’t at fault that poverty is not a product of laziness that there is violence inherent in the system that we can only blame ourselves for lack of vision. It has long been time to throw off old skins and bury our carcasses in the earth and watch as former selves compost and decompose turning death into soft loam into a soil so fertile that meaning can’t help but grow. If we're not enraged we're not paying attention and we've learned not to question our lack of connection And even though nothing really matters what the fuck have you got to lose by helping someone grow through? by connecting to humanity’s vast system of roots? Don’t aspire to be the wind, but instead be the seed that finds the good stuff to sprout in, that can’t be anything but grounded, and learn that resiliency is found in not loneliness but the forest. |
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May 2020
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