The stars are mostly dead, even if you still see them. What good can be found in lies?
To me, this relies on one question. As long as we can still see them, are they real to us? If what we see isn’t always reality, then it is our reality. Maybe there are worse things. Maybe the truth has a way of hurting us more than our eyes would abide.
Everyday is an uphill battle, every stream a journey, and every hill is steepest near the peak. At the end of each battle, we get to rest. A momentary bliss before the next hill, a new peak, and after we’ve suffered enough, surmounted all our peaks, we get to rest forever.
So march-on through the black, for fear is an illusion, and strength is more than how you survive. It’s how you live.
Lashing out is easy.
The pain and shame of losing your name to an adversarial game of blame, trepid fuel of the wretched sets our world aflame.
But what if I, was the problem the whole time?
That’s when the ground will open wide, the tide of a thousand lies you helped abide, consumes you. So, you hide behind the landslide of nitrous-oxide, the only way you can still breathe.
Yeah, so what if I, was the problem the whole time?
A sublime bind of misery’s line, begrimes the climb to anything real. Easy to die and easy to cry, easy to fault the man to your left for living where the sun shines, while you feign war-time-crimes; a pantomime that’s blind.
Maybe, the whole time, I was the problem; stepping up is hard.
Strength isn’t easy.
Most equate you to the seething, euphoric, and acute joy one feels during an accomplishment. That feeling of well-being and contentedness, whispers promising safety as you engulf us. But, that’s not your true face. You’re a conceptual construct, a platform, an unrealistic ideal.
Happily ever after?
How could you exist, when acute joy is so fleeting. Do you refer to a plateau in which we achieve permanence in euphoria, a chronic dose of endorphin-dreams? Those wisps we’d do anything the infuse, to caress, if only for a moment. Pretend, for a moment, that you are real. What then? After a year of the pleasant mist, doesn’t the equilibrium shift? The extraordinary is the new ordinary. Do we want that? Are the ever-shifting dunes of the human mind really that terrible? To fore-go all moments to crystallize our being into a single emotion. That elusive and momentary bliss.
No. I don’t think that’s what we really want. So I’ll keep chasing the fragments of hope, follow them through the glaciers, through forest-fires, and give myself the time to figure it out on my own.