I keep writing and deleting. The words feeling trite or flimsy. The emotions sounding self centered or whiney. I write, and then I delete. Is it worth writing, if it is not worth reading?
Life is worth living, regardless, even if no one sees us when we triumph or when we fail. No one sees it when I crumple under the crushing weight of awareness, and no one should have to.. It is ugly and gorgeous. Too much to show without sunglasses. The knowledge of suffering, the depth of that suffering, the Buddha gives us dukkha and we drink up every sūtra.
What are the sounds of human existence, the clinking, clanging, crashing, booming, whispering, moaning sounds of societal existence? A sūtra of life, what words can break bones in the day of modern living?
The digital ones, apparently. Throw them with IP addresses, and link them with rabbit holes of wickedness and desperate delight. Throw the digital excess at the mirror and break it. Do you imagine we will see the Matrix trickle out, in rivulets of green digits, flowing like a river of answers to the ageless unasked questions?
Ha, you think I ramble, You Think I am Crazy, but I am not wrong.
I am crazy, and I am correct.
Ramble on little one, the breeze tells me as I sigh, my breath becoming the wind, taking my words to the other side of the world, decency in the country is in a drought, the democratic freedoms of writing words on imaginary poster boards is decaying.
The Nothing is Coming, we have always known it would. Which one of us stopped dreaming? Which one of us gave up hope? How dark is the sunset that has no sun. How inky the moonrise that has no moon. Would the stars give enough light for life to grow?
Am I not bright enough for us all? So bright I feel like I might break. Splitting into prisms of light, little pyramids of rainbow sparkle, falling through every crack and cranny, not any nook forgotten, the sparkles will remain. Long past civilization, the sparkles left from raves in days long gone will shine bright enough to catch the Raven’s eye.
Ah but no. No, this is not so. I am a black hole. I am a vacuum. Sucking up the air in the room, my trunk long and curling, reaching under the table to goose the Donkey. May I play hooky with you where no one can see us? In alley ways with cameras that are just for looks?
Don’t bother telling me no, I have already forgotten my question for you. It doesn’t matter, any answer will do. Truth is stranger than fiction, and my breaking heart feels each crack in the wall of reality. My cracking knuckles feel each split of sand in the desert. My eyes evaporate their tears before they fall, my attempt at offering rain to the rain gods.
We are in a drought, indeed.
