Cycle of Sustenance (On eating and thinking)
Yesterday I walked through the front door with a kick to my step, a trot perhaps, that mentioned my ideas were beginning to flow; like the sunbeams that broke windows and cracked doors to true illumination. So I stepped from my shoes and bowed before the mat. Yes this blue soft ground controls, supports me. I may fall and rip to disrepair but it will be of no fault of the mat. Nor would it be fault of the concrete for that matter, just all the more likely. My training pressed hard and quickly, and I met my mind in a stream of exhaustion and excitement. I would be ready for a battle set in hell itself, with heat turned up and a giant screaming at me all the while. These were the moments of battle, the existential questioning as I moved from locker to doorway and the proud determination of my thoughts while driving home.
To express the enlightenment of a dinner quiet and alone after a day of intense work. The sun setting on my brow as I sigh and devour slowly the green beings in front of me. These natural amazements. The cordial gift from the ground and the farmers and the grocer's and the seeds. While we slept and halted growth, they grew to maximization and once ready we plucked them for daily salvation. The tear of teeth to their flesh represents my happiest moments. Appreciation of the love and life and time spent bringing this delicious sustenance to my bowl.
What a coincidence, to sustain off of the death of others. To detain ones reach to the edge of existence and pluck the berries that disapprove of masturbation. Their cordial silence as we mix them and hold them and rinse them. Readying devouring to begin. Gross need and a daily repetition. To the T, every day, I walk to my table and place a piece of my own existence down, ready to be included into my lifestream. The magic in that.
And while we gorge or under report to our bodies the magnificence that is life; the more we tinker and break, boil and smash, decompose and reinvigorate; the more we bust our timed skull in, hoping for chances to truly understand, through cheap dates and hollow endorsement of any stimulation, the more we disintegrate into ourselves. Once again, there is the irony of disintegrating the relation between one and one’s existence, in the means of finding one’s existence. I chase the rabbit down its hole, questioning and yelling and threatening. It refuses to hear me, so I scream louder and hit it hard, the questions become rants and the rants become tears, I cry out incoherently in order to communicate my utter frustration in this situation. He does not reply for I have killed him.
WHAT’D I DO GEORGE
The moment to reflect on you actions is now. To disregard the moment to moment sacrifices one makes, the cost of opportunity of every decision, is to forget the analytical necessity in finding any answer. If you want to answer a question you cannot just dance and paint and sing and run, but think. Yes to think is to know and to know is to answer. To answer is to reverberate in a chamber of realization. And the dancing you do in your mind is unimaginable.
The emotional occupation of the soul is a beautiful swan, a painted landscape shadowed in toil and love. The checkmarks of birds and sweat drops running ink through canvas and seeping worries and memories and sweet mischievous qualms. Better to realize the sensational appeal of a sunrise than to watch the sun move unblinkingly through the sky, ready for the moment of aptitude where blindness meets vision and coronas meet corneas. A bitterly fashioned drink is one still drinkable, and reminding oneself that this cycle is on an infinite repeat brings a beam of conducive electricity. The rattling of your own saber will do little, and the cutting of tree branches to see their insides does less. Give remote access to your being, and reason with it. Cherish the life that we sacrifice daily, for sustenance in understanding. Through drowning and idle thought, through gunfire and disease and pasta and roasts. The acceptance of that river of affection is what gives more than ironies.
To express the enlightenment of a dinner quiet and alone after a day of intense work. The sun setting on my brow as I sigh and devour slowly the green beings in front of me. These natural amazements. The cordial gift from the ground and the farmers and the grocer's and the seeds. While we slept and halted growth, they grew to maximization and once ready we plucked them for daily salvation. The tear of teeth to their flesh represents my happiest moments. Appreciation of the love and life and time spent bringing this delicious sustenance to my bowl.
What a coincidence, to sustain off of the death of others. To detain ones reach to the edge of existence and pluck the berries that disapprove of masturbation. Their cordial silence as we mix them and hold them and rinse them. Readying devouring to begin. Gross need and a daily repetition. To the T, every day, I walk to my table and place a piece of my own existence down, ready to be included into my lifestream. The magic in that.
And while we gorge or under report to our bodies the magnificence that is life; the more we tinker and break, boil and smash, decompose and reinvigorate; the more we bust our timed skull in, hoping for chances to truly understand, through cheap dates and hollow endorsement of any stimulation, the more we disintegrate into ourselves. Once again, there is the irony of disintegrating the relation between one and one’s existence, in the means of finding one’s existence. I chase the rabbit down its hole, questioning and yelling and threatening. It refuses to hear me, so I scream louder and hit it hard, the questions become rants and the rants become tears, I cry out incoherently in order to communicate my utter frustration in this situation. He does not reply for I have killed him.
WHAT’D I DO GEORGE
The moment to reflect on you actions is now. To disregard the moment to moment sacrifices one makes, the cost of opportunity of every decision, is to forget the analytical necessity in finding any answer. If you want to answer a question you cannot just dance and paint and sing and run, but think. Yes to think is to know and to know is to answer. To answer is to reverberate in a chamber of realization. And the dancing you do in your mind is unimaginable.
The emotional occupation of the soul is a beautiful swan, a painted landscape shadowed in toil and love. The checkmarks of birds and sweat drops running ink through canvas and seeping worries and memories and sweet mischievous qualms. Better to realize the sensational appeal of a sunrise than to watch the sun move unblinkingly through the sky, ready for the moment of aptitude where blindness meets vision and coronas meet corneas. A bitterly fashioned drink is one still drinkable, and reminding oneself that this cycle is on an infinite repeat brings a beam of conducive electricity. The rattling of your own saber will do little, and the cutting of tree branches to see their insides does less. Give remote access to your being, and reason with it. Cherish the life that we sacrifice daily, for sustenance in understanding. Through drowning and idle thought, through gunfire and disease and pasta and roasts. The acceptance of that river of affection is what gives more than ironies.
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