September 5, 2021

Open your eyes!
My child, open your eyes!
Behold the glory of Creation!

I follow the tree, conforming myself to its subtleties,

a branch unfurled by the breeze.

But then it is too much, too much grandeur for a confused soul. I turn inward.

But open your eyes!
See what beauty you hide from!
And why?

Why, because there is something wrong. I am not ready. Such magnificence is not fitting.

I pause midway through the door.

Open your eyes!

I’m not ready.

I collapse into myself, tortured, regretting.
What is wrong with me?

Why can I not face the world?

Emptiness and decay.
The music is just noise. It is not fitting.
I just want quiet.
Waterfalls, gardens.
Mother.

Father shames me for it.
But I am not ready!

There is too much freedom. The men say it's up to me to build my own constraints, and I'm too tired to see how.
But if I'm not awake I end up crying on the floor.

No, I get to choose whether there's hope and purpose.
But I am too tired to build vision.
I am emptiness and decay.

Did God create me or did I create God?
I could do the latter, I could, I really could. I could become that person.
But no, Mother is right. Surely, she is right. Besides, I'm too tired to create God.

Should I fix??

Why aren't Mother and Father dancing properly together?

Where is my family? The people that hold me together? I’ve shut them out. Again.
I need to open up, build the cycles that keep this thing going.

Other people are the constraints by which relevance is realized.

But I'm so tired.
Emptiness and decay.

My body desiccated, thin skin slapped on bone.
I need rest, nourishment. Life depends on it.
I am the cycles that sustain me,
cycles I cannot see. Where did this come from? Is it good for me?
They all say yes and no. The music is just noise. Can I even trust the soil?

Infinity,
I do not feel strong.
I need to build myself up
from Mother?
Where does it all come from?
Infinity.

We have to find a way to talk that works, language that serves this thing we're all doing.
If only Mother and Father would get along, I could say more clearly what that thing is,
a game, a problem, a puzzle, a dance...

We are Mother and Father to our bodies.

Who will speak to this generation? What truth can pierce such cynicism, narcissism?
What is the truth that is also virtue? Language is part of the thing that's trying to survive, part of the cycles that sustain us.
Is this what is meant by "post-truth"?

They will never know community. I will never know community,
real, deep, lasting,
unless I build it myself.
But with who? Who can I possibly commit myself to?
Everyone's plans diverge. They don’t see
they are the cycles that sustain them.
This thing will die unless we build roots
and build them deep.

The soil is our future.

What is my role to play in all of this?
I am not an intellectual. I am not smart. I’m too tired.
Stop looking to me to be stable and smart.

I’m the guy that’s trying to unite art and problem-solving and…
It’s a game, a problem, a puzzle, a dance…

Self-reference is the key. Immanence is where the confusion lies. My perceiving the cycles is part of the cycles.

But how do I say it? What is the truth that is also fitting and good
and beautiful?