The walking dead

Inertia moves forward.  Rolling slow and steady the vile wad of phlegm rises up through the still waters and makes its way towards the mouth. The gestation period is long but its evacuation is quick and without mercy.  Like a crystal, the long hard hours of sitting still with apparently nothing happening quickly manifest into action.  Both parts are needed but only one gets the credit, and the masses cheer: Look at that! How beautiful! What grace and prowess! If only we could all be like that! But the fools who praise the quicksilver action have no idea as to the reality of the situation.  You see what you want to see and forever is there a screen in front of you occluding the true nature of the beast; Plato's Cave.

I'm thrust from the Earth's crust 30,000 feet into the air.  My sinuses expand, my mind goes numb.  My animal instincts clamor for comfort as it is not quite a natural expectation of my nervous system rooted in the confines of my genetic memory.  8 more hours. Leave this place for a while; Come back.  I barely remember why I came except that every time I leave I see the horror of what has been done to my mind.  To have to endure the sword of Damocles, forever waiting for that impending moment that actually may never arrive; To never really know.  There is solace to be found in the notion that we are all just constructing stories here and mitigating our experience with that fact you can maybe strike a balance and find the sweet spot.  That place where you see the waves of your imagination crashing against the shores of reality.  That it is not quite a line but forever a moving boundary that never sits still.

The chase never ends. My subconscious attacks me yet again.  Vomiting dirt and worms; Facing irrational adversaries. Trying to prove to myself that it is the clock ticking down, the process unfolding itself.  The pendulum swings again: Vast contentment, plunging despair, impending doom, then the sunrise.  The collapse of reason and the weight lifted with such gratitude that the world smears across my face.

What am I doing?  I must take responsibility.  But how?  I cannot be the tapestry; I am merely a thread.  Why do I contribute to the rape of the Earth? Do I really have to?  The answer is not as simple as I would like it to be.  Though I don't know if I could actually know an answer.  Were all just storytellers here and is it one to acknowledge that perhaps we tell ourselves merely what we want to hear.  Zoom out.  The cosmic order seems much more serener on a long enough timeline;  But is it too far?  Or is it more irresponsible to pretend like we know the answers?  To put the burden of the world on our shoulders is actually quite arrogant.  Though to not contribute, to not try and force the burden of awareness into the forefront is just copping out.  Like the crust punks of ye olde, dropping out of the system isn't changing a thing.  Neither is playing into an identity that perpetuates itself from polarizing its counter parts.

Sometimes I'm just waiting for it to be all over.  There is an ocean of blackness waiting to swallow me whole.  The eagle of awareness that maybe, if your just ____ you can slip past and remain intact.  Perhaps that is rather egoist, but maybe it's true.  Maybe we all think too much (well at least some of us) for our own good.  Did we get our Christmas present too early?  Did we get something we didn't have to work hard for, and in essence do not truly understand the value of?  It don't mean nothin' drive on.  We are the storm.  The storm is a force, and you don't control the force; You nudge it in a direction and it yields an experience that can be construed as control; But in fact does the gear control the clock?  Or does it just do what it was made to do under the right circumstances?