We are languishing in pools of morbid infinity. Awaiting the coming of a way, a darak. In time, perhaps it will be revealed, but we are fools 'til then. In some ways, it may be for the best. The individual will roll through the mind and roll its rapid waves. Prophecy, fortunately, is not languished. It may be yet to wait until a time of triumph for the people, (the People of the Storm, of the Earth), yet it will not languish forever. Am I one? Who is among these? Who, like children, can discern what really is important, can laugh with trees, with stars, with moonbeams, with the waves of the holy ocean? Who is real enough to play, to speak to the heart of the storm as its equal, and to not be afraid? Is it one of us, any of us left? We were once the People of the Stars, but whence this emptiness, whence this desire to spill the blood of the saints and sages? Whence this need for a dark water that will non sustain, but only destroy. I wish I knew. Hear, around the bonfire of this quiet universe. Listen. Perhaps if we listen, we can cross the divide. Go forth in hope, and creation may listen. Let our People go. Answer the call of truth, the call of being, and we must all be on the side of life, the side of laughing in the face of death. May we not weep without our tears watering the ground with new life. We have a dream. They have another dream, they the keepers of Death, but we have a dream that justice shall roll down like water, righteousness like a mighty stream.
This is the vortex. I’m slipping in to the fourth set. Swinging like a villain in the porch deck. Recreating myself for the hundredth time. Establishing my rule through the scorched earth. Overcoming challenges like a prize fighter. Dwelling on my failures for the last time. Embracing pleasures, escaping measures, pushing back the Bible thumping forces. Wishing for another prime. Hoping for a little time. Skipping out on banal social cohorts. Things are shaking loose out of their foundations. Traditions crumble down to dusty block things. I’m in the vortex. I’m in the fourth set. Drawing on my inner child hope-sets. I’m casting visions and I’m and reeling in realities unforeseen.
Let’s get together over tea and maybe we can talk this through. My sarcasm was meant with the highest intentions of love. Belief clouds cause real rain. Thought patterns drive real decisions, and I was just trying to make light of your impending doom. Theology is no laughing matter. Priest jokes are for drunken juveniles, not for serious people sipping tea. I post a comment, you respond in anger; then I defend myself. Things are complicated when they don’t need to be. Things are simplified when they can’t be. It is easy to splat-crackle on the frazzled cracker. It is wishless to whisper amidst the blended seekers. I speak too loud. You calm me down. I sip some tea. You strain to cause me pain. I shrug it off and now I sit back down again.
Fools! Fools! Marching in with tools and tools. You chart the course and measure the weather, and yet it rains and scrambles every attempt at control you make. It scrambles your brains and all your tools are silly and vein. It is morning, you plan. It is lunch, you plot. It is dinner, and now you count what you have got. You rub the belly. You pour the wine. You check your wallet and count your dimes. Somber merchants surround your table. Frazzled restaurateurs pass the butter. Don't you ever want to see it all crumble? Don't you get tired of the big dumb show? Don't you want your silly guests to go? Pack your things, people, the rain has lifted. Gather up your important clothes and scattered estimates. Plot out your stepping stone lives elsewhere.
Tribal chants bounce off the concrete community walls of this endless city. This endless destruction. This endless tree genocide that is civilization. Oh so uncivilization. Reverberation. Tribal encantations. Melodious curses pounded into the stratosphere with drums and wooden blocks. Terrified white folk quickly construct bigger guns and stronger shields. Tribal chants vibrate the authority structure until it crumbles. Fat women rush through the debris in search of ice cream. Twitching men dig through garbage heaps for old pornography, or at least, heavily suggestive advertising. SOMETHING that they can jerk off to. Broken white folk scramble like electrified zombies for fixes. For one more hit for their lame, ungodly addictions.