Splaying truth against better judgement

Another witless witness to what not and in between. Thus I forage my existence in an attempt at successfully communicating my dire plight. Focusing on the positive, the struggle to achieve ANYTHING is somewhat admirable in and of itself, if one has the empathy to comprehend such virtues. Like red hot vomit rolling down the avenue, time splatters forward in a great gush of the past cascading in all directions not yet beknownst. What words can I cry to validate that which is so much more than I can ever be? Like a kitten mewing inside the cupboard in feigned anguish, my percieved situation is further beyond trivial than I can possibly imagine. Yet I participate completely, a dufus in a tsunami of me own regurgitated experiences.

The beauty of perfect love

Is always out of reach

Like the freedom of a dove

It's the nature of the beast

Everything that is to come

And all that came to cease

Is exactly what we're made of

Thus the greatest is the least

"Time softly there

Laughs through the abyss of radiance with the gods."

-William Vaughn Moody. (1869–1910)

Toil and Spin

This upheaval presents consequence beyond human understanding, and yet we strive so to grasp meaning among the celestial entities. Essentially, it becomes one soul to recognize the futility of incarnation, and yet be in the world. It is a marvelous performance of immense intensity that never fails to explain nothing. Still, as a dramatization of actual events, it is one of the best. As with most dreams of love unending, facing adversity only foments the an already egregious theme. What wisdom could possibly supplant this cojangulation of fluid and tissue in motion? And exactly what is real for how long?

Gently let the world just be
Between time and space
Let these unfurl before thee
All things fall into place

Although it may seem real
An illusion has no substance
But what it makes one feel
Is a bit akin to romance

Remembering the now
Is a never ending chore
But that's why and how
A body and soul are for

" ’T were all one
That I should love a bright particular star,
And think to wed it."
-William Shakespeare (1564–1616) All ’s Well that Ends Well. Act i. Sc. 1.

Amidst fragments of unity Am I

The quality of an experience is measured by that which preceeds it. A thorough and intimate knowlege may pervade our strange interpretations, but in explaining such our presentation becomes focal rather than the matter at hand. Some drama is to be expected in this rough exchange, and lordy-lord knoweth man all too well to tell us to understand otherwise. Ideally, recogniton of indulgency would seemingly lead to corrective action, but where's the fun in that? Admiration invites critique, as flies to wanton boys go.

Finding meaning in a dream
From which we wake suddenly
Time is about the only thing
That can be taken, seriously.

Art is long, life is short.
—Goethe
Hippocrates is supposed to have originated this saying which is better known in Latin
"Ars longa, vita brevis est."

Absolute Perfection Disclaimer

For infinite complexity, one can do no better than our present condition. The eternal strands of time and subatomic pattern cross referencing usually result in copious amounts of 'how the hell did I get myself into this?" occuring. Relaxing in the everlasting sunshine of the God's sweet love may SEEM the order of any given day, but somehow we ended up HERE. Ever one seeking to improve immediate conditions, our natural tendency is to bend form to our will. Of course, this is really approaching the problem backwards, but in such cases, ANY attempt to rectify the current situation is better than wallowing in the syrup of ignorance. Thus, somehow we sense a greater purpose to our temporal existence when we assign the absolute grandeur of mankind's outlandish attempt to control anything BUT our voracious appetites.

On the way to heaven
I found myself again
That's where I discovered
You're either out or in
Happiness without measure
Pleasure without sin
Always is when to treasure
From beginning to end


What majesty should be, what duty is,
Why day is day, night night, and time is time,
Were nothing but to waste night, day, and time;
Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit
And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes,
I will be brief. Your noble son is mad. Mad call I it;
for, to define true madness, What is ’t but to be nothing else but mad?
-Polonius, Hamlet