Archive | August 19, 2012

Random… um… Prose?

(nov 2008)

I don’t know what to call this kind of thing. I’m sure there’s a term for it, and if I put a lot of random returns in I could call it poetry, but whatever. It is what it is.

TRUTH

I sit at the edge of consciousness and dreams, and stare past the glass. Cold fire and tight stars littler the streaky sky as the night takes over and passes by the day. And as this dark mistress steals over the world I am trapped in limbo, neither awake nor asleep, but drifting half in and half out of that other place; the place where dreams and inspiration lie. And as I hang, suspended at its edges, I feel that I am close to some revelation. Some truth, about to be revealed, tickles the tips of my fingers, though I cannot grasp it. The exclamation of discovery quivers on the edge of my lips but refuses to be vocalized. Yet I can feel it; destiny is so close that I can almost taste it.

The fire dies and the darkness grows and with it the restlessness of my spirit. I strive too hard to touch this unattainable thing – this knowledge which is waiting for me to find it. I try too hard and it slips from my grasping hand and fades away into the late twilight. Though I try to bring it back, I find that it is utterly gone and that the chance fled when I applied too much force.

Is not that the way of the world, and of humanity? When we see some fluttering beauty weaving just out of our grasp, do we sit and wait in quiet, finger extended and expectant, for the butterfly of reward to light upon it, or do we run and stomp and cry as we try to tackle down the elusive dream and wrangle it into submission? The dream must submit to our hard hands, it must form the way we wish and give us that which we desire, and it must do it now.

And with these threats, the gently fluttering treasure flies away at break neck speed, and we are left stumbling alone through a field of yesterday’s stubble and wondering why nothing good comes our way. We let the stalks crunch beneath our feet, never looking down or thinking what damage we might do to those who we walk over. All the while we moan and cry because we have not been fulfilled, we have not been given what we deserve.

But what do we deserve? A throne to sit upon and dictate edicts to the common man? But who is the common man? The one who has yet to catch his dream, or the one who we deem to be beneath us? Who decides what rank and privilege is handed out? Is it in our hands or the hands of the universe?

But the universe- oh the universe – how fickle does she seem as she dances always out of reach, tantalizing the weary with the golden truth but never handing it out. Still, what would we do with the truth? If she gave of it freely would we even know? Or would we be too busy staring at the sky and moaning our misfortune to see that truth lay all around us, bathed in purple as the sun died for the night?