brndbx

Here’s a question for your soul; How many times can a broken thing break? And the Gods whispered: Let’s see, shall we?

I know that many things that seem very precious – very holy – are gone for me – but I feel too – that way down beyond that – where you can not touch it – where no one can touch it – there is a bond – that is my feeling for you – it is deeper than anything you can do to me – that is why I know I will be with you to the end – whether you wish it or not – whether I choose it or not – whether I am close to you or not.

We suffer more often in imagination than in reality.

So few grains of happiness measured against all the dark and still the scales balance.    The world asks of us only the strength we have and we give it. Then it asks more, and we give it.

The question we need to ask ourselves is whether there is any place we can stand in ourselves where we can look at all that’s happening around us without freaking out, where we can be quiet enough to hear our predicament, and where we can begin to find ways of acting that are at least not contributing to further destabilization.

But why this need for expression? Who within me feels it? This craving to communicate, perpetuate, crystallize, and re-create experience? I’m dreaming of a perfect bit of prose. A brief ideal on the horizon of every idle moment; that strange incapacity for letting a whole day laze itself away; for letting time and arrogance and the image of oneself that one offers to the world, just sniff each other, tolerate each other—such as they are.