I am a shepherd with a growing flock. That young mongrel mutt of mine, the one I’ve spent so long training, he’s ran away. I find myself alone with the little that belongs to me using all my power to keep it. I know he’s just sitting at a distance beaming at me – laughing. He will come back when he’ll be ready, I won’t push him or punish him when he returns.
I herd these sheep – I love my doing. I love that I have nowhere to come home to. Am I lying to myself? Sleeping amongst the stars, the recurring dream wakes me often. It seldom varies in its ambiance. It’s always same, the realization, the feelings; they all surge at me when I wake. Why can’t I think in my dream? Dreams are thoughts after all. I suppose what makes a dream so beautiful is the absence of our obscene associations – that obscene consciousness that is created by society – that which we are born without.
I float on a raft on foggy waters. I paddle hard with my hands. All to naught. I move slowly – no worries of hitting an unseen object – this is the void. The fog is comforting – almost cozy. Sometimes, the fog may disappear entirely in the blink of an eye, and in such, all I see is more stagnant waters. I learn I am in a calm, stale sea with no land in sight – just water, all else is mirages I think to myself. I sometimes see more fog ahead, perhaps it hides another raft... perhaps these waters are infested with wondering souls. An illusion? Perhaps this is a world of likely beings all floating on a desolate planet of pure water. Perhaps we aren’t even beings. Perhaps I’m one of the few that has no cozy fog. Perhaps I know nothing.
Accepting the world outside the fog is not comforting, and worst of all, each time the fog returns, it becomes denser and the coziness weakens. What of a life of such? It’s simple. Every human being will find a niche in any world. They will either meet another raft (continuing to drift, but now in company) or they will find a part of the fog that satisfies them for some absurd reason only logical to them. Some may manage to emerge, close their eyes and drift forever in hopelessness for every rafter knows in his soul the promise of unseen land. That is why we paddle and do not dive off.
Only those who are mad enough to seek land underwater find it – bliss awaits them.
And here I am, just sitting waiting for my dog...
3 comments:
I know you guys will probably get the wrong idea (I'm just basing this on what I would do). I am not planning to kill myself.
It just so happens that my brain has left its rational way of thinking and began talking to me in bloody metaphors - and you know how it is. If you can't communicate with anyone to clear up your mind, and reading and watching movies has failed, one must write. But what good is writing if it is never seen?
Anyway, my point is: don't take this as "depressive teenager talk".
Yes, isolation creates a lot of introspection space for me, the fruits of which were either simultaneously or later expressed in writing. It was in those times that my inspiration would reach new heights and that I encountered poetic creativity and depth as well as a certain clearsightedness despite confused thoughts.
A great time for personal growth, even if certain aspects of a personality cannot grow in such a context.
As you would expect, I am now thinking "Tim's shepherding suggestion for me was a means to vicariously experience a mental image a part of him was toying with". Lol! The Reveries of Tim the Shepherd! :)
As for the raft in the endless sea of mist metaphor, - specifically "Every human being will find a niche in any world. They will either meet another raft (continuing to drift, but now in company) or they will find a part of the fog that satisfies them for some absurd reason only logical to them. Some may manage to emerge, close their eyes and drift forever in hopelessness for every rafter knows in his soul the promise of unseen land. That is why we paddle and do not dive off." - most people do seem to find a place where they are content for some cultural reason(I'm thinking guardians), but that too often it is a case of Thoreau's mass of men who lead lives of quiet desperation and where what is called resignation is confirmed desperation; while the promise of the unseen land - faith - although it may seem futile, is IMO an effective means for liberation and a worthwhile naivety to embrace and nurture.
All this reminds me of why I have been deconstructing parts of my lives I was unhappy with and have been developing an idiosyncratic "spiritual" side for the last year with attention to eating, exercise, health, yoga, waking up early, etc.
As you would expect, I am now thinking "Tim's shepherding suggestion for me was a means to vicariously experience a mental image a part of him was toying with"
Yuppers. And that taken aside, I also realized that my other statement, the biggest fear I had for you, was really about me... I am afraid of losing reality. Or rather, never finding it again. That feeling of reality. That rare moment of utter bliss generated from a certain way the sunlight fell upon the water. That moment.
Maybe I'm just getting older, and feelings are for children and women... lol... but I don't want to part with them.
And about "quiet desperation" - I don't think of it that way. It's a simple existence, and most people, I believe, are plenty contempt with an "adequate lifestyle". Not me. Not us. Not Thoreau.
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