I am living an erratic life. High ups and Low downs. It’s strangely serine at times. It makes for good music. It’s also good for self-construction and self-deprecation. In this strange polarity I find immense growth, true arrogance, and crushing humility, complete clarity, but also the seemingly endless rolling fog of illusion.
Many times I am empowered and many other times I am helpless.
A blue sky can change my life but the next days’ grey clouds can crush it.
So it follows that life is what you make it. What is it that determines the amount of control I have over my life, my body, my mind, my soul? I see that everyone that I come in contact with is a manifestation of myself. How can the previous statement be disproved? How is it right? What are the shapes and sizes of the gears and sprockets of life that lie behind the sheet of progressing images that life shows me?
If this sheet that is shown to me-is for me, than the gears controlling the pulleys that tug on the ropes that shift and shimmy the curtain must be mine too. Perhaps it is important that I scrape the rust off the metal pieces and replace rotten rope with strong fibrous material. I can not see behind the scenes without tearing at my curtain. And now I can express my point:
I recently went to San Francisco to visit friends but spent more time talking to myself. I ended up being very rough on my body pushing myself into a state of self-destruction. I did quite a bit of drugs, smoked some weed, drank a lot, and ate a lot. The night I was supposed to leave I missed my flight. I stayed up all night and left early next morning on a mild drunk and an upper high. On the way down I felt a deep blow of filth that had manifested in my life and it projected onto the walls outside and the piss-stained streets. The ugly abuse of life of the neighborhood in which I stayed.
It was before dawn when I had walked to the subway station. I saw two men near a car- one man was holding on to a large laundry basket. As I walked by, the man near the car said “10$”, just then I saw two legs sticking out of the cart. The man was fucking the women hidden in the laundry basket- in the most obnoxious way. I continued walking in disgust at the abuse of sex I had just seen. I sat down in the subway and focused on an image of a fallen soldier on a veterans help sign (a sign I had seen frequently on my stay in the city).
In the subway station below the rotten squalor above I began to silently weep. I looked up periodically and saw a grand relief sculpture of the face of God.
I wept for the scum that lived for fleeting pleasures that end in decay. The lost ones in the parks who escape reality, the Kings without Queens, and those who would die for love and never get it. I wept because they are me and I am they. Those that I speak to I try to lead and encourage but what force can I have when I had little control of myself. I wept on the train because I felt God (a symbol of the substance that is energy of existence) it is then that I came closer to myself.
As a child is born he is born with the legs of a child. But a man becomes a man when he discovers that he has knees to fall on when he is humbled.
True Kings take a knee. True Kings walk among their men and never stand above them.
I know see a den of lions racing on top of each other roaring while they leave earth and filing into blue skies and entering the light of the sun.
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