The little town of Burry Port in West Wales used to have an oasis. A tranquil patch of green and wood next to the streets and clusters of houses. During my childhood it was almost magical, and even retained some of that charm as I grew up. It was a place one could go for the kind of peace which only the countryside can provide, where songbirds and splashes from frogs in the pond was the constant background noises.
There were four fair sized meadows, overgrown in places like a wild beard, and here and there oak trees and beeches stood, lush fodder for the ever present green woodpeckers. And of course there was the pond, filled to the brim with newts, frogs and pond skaters, that zipped across the waters surface. Reeds skirted the edge like watch towers and every Spring would bring masses of frog's spawn, eagerly collected by myself and others.
I adored the place, it instilled in my younger self a passion for nature which I have never lost, and I am forever indebted to this tiny haven for wildlife. In one field patches of ferns grew, deep and rich, perfect for catching crazy children intent on throwing themselves from trees. It also had 'tunnels' of brambles which would take us to different areas of the town if you followed them, one ended up coming out on the top road.
I often howled in delight at the looks of older people being totally suprised at the sight of a group of children, suddenly appearing out of the hedgerows, shrieking like red indians. Those portals were invaluable in games of hide n' seek also, or playing truant from school. Parents had little hope of finding their wayward offspring in the wooded jungles.
In the farthest field, if you ventured down a steep bank, you would find a well, where fresh water would always be running. In summer months it was bliss! After a day of tree climbing and dive bombing ferns, there was nothing better than feeling that silver water on your skin and down the parched throat. The doubters insist that fairytale gardens only exist on pages of books, but I know different.
But alas, nothing is sacred, and it is with a sad and bitter heart that I must report that the Furnace Fields are no more. Man, and his vulgar quest to erase nature for the sake of building even more shabby estates, has seen to it. The ferns, pond, trees and birdsong are all encased in cement, and where glorious stills of wildlife stood now are tombs of families and car pools of oil.
Man, the utter vandal.
Monday 25 January 2010
Wednesday 20 January 2010
A Boy And His Funeral
Life gets dull without a FavouriteThing(tm), everyone needs a hobby or something to dribble over, a craze to ferment and for this starry boy it is funerals, and depending on circumstance, the events leading up to them. Strange? Maybe. Morbid? Definately. But there it is, death and its beautiful pomp is very attractive to me.
And before I am misunderstood it has nothing to do with wanting to be 'gothic' or any other attention seeking trend, I have spewed too many years (and too much blood) to be accused of that. Dame Erotica with her teenage skin cutting friends can rot, this kid is delighted by real tragedy. Not the stricken or the victims, my heart weeps for them, but the miserable circus. It is the hospitals, the drips, mortuaries, hearses, coffins, graveyard dogs and the march of the mourners which seduce me.
I have long wanted to create a sickbed in my home; bed white as a lilly, crisp and smelling of day old dissinfectant with two loud bursts of colour on either side at the head. On one side the bold, rich, red blood sack IV's, while on the other the lush green of grapes pitted by the almost neon glow of oranges. It could even be a recent death bed and I could fashion the pillow so that it had the dent of a head, now resting on a slab.
But alas it wouldn't last, I would get lazy and the let blood curdle and the fruit gather dust and mould. Better to simply be content in stories and pictures, which in this heartless, cruel world, come in an endless stream, fulfilling the appetite of even the most rabid ghoul.
The dance of death is all so fine, conjuring images of ravens in churchyards and busty widows in tight, black skirts sending indecent thoughts to the debauched inbox of my brain. From mourning to lust in one long hard on, it is a fantastic medley of emotions.
I often catch myself planning my funeral, I must have organised and reorganised it a thousand times. A black casket lined with yellow and white silk, my grinning corpse, idle within. Skin flushed because my spirit would be resting on the heaving breasts of a female preacher, who would arrive complete with sheer nylon stockings and garter holding a bottle opener to her leg.
The only tears I would want are tears of laughter, either at my past antics or peculiar tastes, or cheers that I finally escaped the mortal clutches of earth. Depressing speeches and dirges are not welcome, poets are the original rockstars God damn it! Get drunk and send my carcass off with a bit of style, balls to dignity. Ive never been a dignified creature so im not starting new habits as a corpse.
If ever there is a chance for the dead to have a heart attack, then I want one during my funeral. I want a full blown cardiac arrest with all the trimmings, if possible another death, more death rattles and bells to go with the silk laments.
It will be the last day anyone will ever honestly think about me so I want smiles (and even strippers), not bubbling lips and snot. Vive la Steve! Now resting in his cot, a slumber he had often thought and scrawled about. Rest in peace brother, is it good where you are? Is it all you imagined it to be? Are there endless frothy sumps of ale served by slutty seraphims with asses like perfect orbs?
I see no reason to act in an orderly manner, that would be a funeral for somebody else. I am shambolic, a hectic slab of meat, so it should follow that I be bid farewell in the same fashion. With Welsh hymns and drinking songs piped from the speakers. Or tapped out by an organist, the prudish sort, so that she winces at the songs about beer and sex.
People remember pain and death and the havoc they cause. So bold, so immediate, they arrive without apology and take with no remorse, like giant exclamation marks sprayed onto a page. The taboo where only the steely faced or grime obssessed visit, while the timid hurry by on their way to having children in order to attempt to ignore the calling of the cemetery.
I embrace the shadows, and everything that hides in them. I would have been one of those who chased the hangman after public executions, in order to buy a length of his rope. The imp at open casket affairs, not to pay any respects but to stare at the deceased and try to figure out what he or she was thinking. Death should not be a forbidden territory, but spoken of and celebrated daily as some cultures quite rightly do.
I love death shapes and all of its poses. Dying within a grip of breath, I sincerely delight in feasts of the macabre and revel in tides of the gruesome.
And before I am misunderstood it has nothing to do with wanting to be 'gothic' or any other attention seeking trend, I have spewed too many years (and too much blood) to be accused of that. Dame Erotica with her teenage skin cutting friends can rot, this kid is delighted by real tragedy. Not the stricken or the victims, my heart weeps for them, but the miserable circus. It is the hospitals, the drips, mortuaries, hearses, coffins, graveyard dogs and the march of the mourners which seduce me.
I have long wanted to create a sickbed in my home; bed white as a lilly, crisp and smelling of day old dissinfectant with two loud bursts of colour on either side at the head. On one side the bold, rich, red blood sack IV's, while on the other the lush green of grapes pitted by the almost neon glow of oranges. It could even be a recent death bed and I could fashion the pillow so that it had the dent of a head, now resting on a slab.
But alas it wouldn't last, I would get lazy and the let blood curdle and the fruit gather dust and mould. Better to simply be content in stories and pictures, which in this heartless, cruel world, come in an endless stream, fulfilling the appetite of even the most rabid ghoul.
The dance of death is all so fine, conjuring images of ravens in churchyards and busty widows in tight, black skirts sending indecent thoughts to the debauched inbox of my brain. From mourning to lust in one long hard on, it is a fantastic medley of emotions.
I often catch myself planning my funeral, I must have organised and reorganised it a thousand times. A black casket lined with yellow and white silk, my grinning corpse, idle within. Skin flushed because my spirit would be resting on the heaving breasts of a female preacher, who would arrive complete with sheer nylon stockings and garter holding a bottle opener to her leg.
The only tears I would want are tears of laughter, either at my past antics or peculiar tastes, or cheers that I finally escaped the mortal clutches of earth. Depressing speeches and dirges are not welcome, poets are the original rockstars God damn it! Get drunk and send my carcass off with a bit of style, balls to dignity. Ive never been a dignified creature so im not starting new habits as a corpse.
If ever there is a chance for the dead to have a heart attack, then I want one during my funeral. I want a full blown cardiac arrest with all the trimmings, if possible another death, more death rattles and bells to go with the silk laments.
It will be the last day anyone will ever honestly think about me so I want smiles (and even strippers), not bubbling lips and snot. Vive la Steve! Now resting in his cot, a slumber he had often thought and scrawled about. Rest in peace brother, is it good where you are? Is it all you imagined it to be? Are there endless frothy sumps of ale served by slutty seraphims with asses like perfect orbs?
I see no reason to act in an orderly manner, that would be a funeral for somebody else. I am shambolic, a hectic slab of meat, so it should follow that I be bid farewell in the same fashion. With Welsh hymns and drinking songs piped from the speakers. Or tapped out by an organist, the prudish sort, so that she winces at the songs about beer and sex.
People remember pain and death and the havoc they cause. So bold, so immediate, they arrive without apology and take with no remorse, like giant exclamation marks sprayed onto a page. The taboo where only the steely faced or grime obssessed visit, while the timid hurry by on their way to having children in order to attempt to ignore the calling of the cemetery.
I embrace the shadows, and everything that hides in them. I would have been one of those who chased the hangman after public executions, in order to buy a length of his rope. The imp at open casket affairs, not to pay any respects but to stare at the deceased and try to figure out what he or she was thinking. Death should not be a forbidden territory, but spoken of and celebrated daily as some cultures quite rightly do.
I love death shapes and all of its poses. Dying within a grip of breath, I sincerely delight in feasts of the macabre and revel in tides of the gruesome.
Thursday 14 January 2010
Pale Clouds In The Relics Of Night
The time is exactly 1:50am on a very early (and cold) Thursday morning, and here I still sit, picking at my thoughts and tapping them out on the keyboard. There is no use in trying to sleep, I have taken four sleepers but the arm of Morpheus won't reach out for me quite yet. Daylight must be closer to the horizon for me to even attempt laying my head on a pillow.
All lights are off so only the computers background light is on, bathing my face in a hood of white whilst all around me is black like the very pit of misery. Spirits of the dead are no doubt hovering behind me, gentle veil eagles that do no harm. In fact they spur me on because without my iron faith that death is not an end I would be a sorry and broken man.
These hours are desolate, not a hint of warmth or comfort, and as I am fond of saying, illness and mortality seem more inevitable now than at any other time of day. I feel it now; weak, morbid, slightly anxious and certain death will meet me in my next footstep. The twilight hours, when the sun is gone and sly things creep about in hedgegrows, are truly the dungeons of time. Dank little places where if rest comes hard one is doomed to stay, dragging every minute as if it were a month.
I glance down at the digital clock on the corner of the screen, 2:10am. An hour later I look again, 2:21am it reads. Almost smugly as if it knows I despise sober nights, when seconds are pulled by giant whales and submarines. Clocks have never been of any use to me, indeed they irritate to the chore. Trying to order my life, settle me down into routine when I demand none of it. I thrive in chaos and want to lead as disorderly life as I can before folding my arms and heading to the grave.
The blackness on the other side of the window is utterly pitch, as if a coal skinned demon was pressing his mighty gut againt the glass. No sane man, woman or beast should be conscious, but I sit like a leper cast out from the coma village while the clean people gather in their dreams for buttery scones and weird tasting tea.
Time is in syrup, lolligagging on a lazy shift. I could almost imagine being a condemned man on death row, living out his last night on earth but of course the wretched inmate will have his sleep when morning arrives (albeit a permanant one), whereas I will still have a struggle. Sleep comes hard for me because in order to sleep easily one must abandon thoughts and ideas, never an easy task to fidgety, creative types.
One of the reasons I drink so heavily is because alcohol is a fine blanket to smother the flame in my mind. Otherwise I would be forever spitting ideas into a notepad, shaping rhyme and stanzas. I need, as other wordy people have seemed to need also, a 'Switch Off' for my brain and gin does a splendid job. (Or any drink that numbs the senses). But nothing stronger than water has passed these lips today so here I sit, cladded inbetween cold and dark.
Would a film pass the time I wonder? On second thoughts no, it is now past 3am and the only thing to do is watch the clock and listen to excited American voices coming from computer speakers. I am not really listening though, it just makes a refreshing change than hearing my gloomy reports; 'Im dying! There's nothing outside but devils in the bushes! Not long now and i'll be dead for sure! Its cold!'
My whiny predictions could put merry sunshine into fits of depression, I have a knack for gothic overtures. It isn't an act or facade that I wear for attention, it is just me. I don't suit rays of light as petals of summer drop from my shoulders, it is much too fragile for my bulk. I am not a fairground carousel, dolling out happiness; I am the ghost train taking the innocent into shadows to corrupt or seduce.
I can feel my brow sag under a wave of tiredness but its fake, a rotten illusion to try and tempt me under the duvet. I know from bitter experience that should I retire and climb into bed, a weight would fall upon my chest forcing me to toss and turn, twitch like a pinball. Sure my eyelids are getting heavier with every stroke of time but I won't be fooled by them, I will sit here, softly stroking my liver through my skin and listen for poltergeists on the stairs.
Its in these hours that I believe prayer would be most heard. The pathetic televisions are dead, roads are idle and babes are safely in their cots so its peaceful, perfect conditions for a chat with the the Almighty. Rubbish of course because if God exists then He can hear above the honking of car horns and nonsense of television.
My mind is racing like a fly in a sardine tin; from dying and sleep to food and how fearsome my beard is looking. Eyes glued to the letters on the screen, sometimes glancing toward the stopped clock and at other times resting on the figures I have standing to attention next to the computer. Precious childhood toys that due to a small fires glow, sometimes appear to be alive as a orange light flickers across their plastic bodies.
I almost wish they were alive, they might have interesting conversation topics. One struggles to find anything of interest in the hours before dawn when the night air has most people gripped in its dream stained cotton fist, never to stir much before six. Its only poets, vagabonds, hoodlums and cats that are alert now as the time crawls up to 5am. Surely nothing disciplined is awake.
I feel drained, drunk without the euphoria. Hungover but dry. I feel sleep is closer now yet I am not looking forward to surrendering to my bed as I suppose normal people feel. Eventhough weariness is beginning to hang from my muscles like wet dish cloths I feel no relief that rest is near.
11:30am and so it proved true. I took my bloated carcass to the thorny nest as it just pipped 5:21am and for some moments lay in the inky light which had no intention of getting brighter at that ungodly hour. I picked up a book and read some paragraphs, hooks of sleep reeling me in on every word, but accompanying each tranquil rivulet were flashes of craziness whenever I shut my eyes.
Freaks hollered and twisted shapes ran amok throughout my mind; bug eyed, dagger nosed wolves eating their own arms, giant headed ants racing across bloodied sands hunting for God knows what but my heart went out for it. Swirls of nausea gripped my brain, fuelling a circus of odd characters and bizarre scenes which would flash ON and OFF over and over in my head. There is never any real fear from these violent palettes of colour but its a miserable way to drift into the shroud of dreams.
Combine those fevered pictures with a heavy heart and biting cold and its a wonder I did succumb to the gentle stabs of sleep but sleep I did. The horror finally gave way to soft pastures where furry things with happy eyes roamed and blood was warm from wine, not dripping from walls or blades. And I surrendered to it, leaving my stubbled cheeks to fend off the chill on their own.
All lights are off so only the computers background light is on, bathing my face in a hood of white whilst all around me is black like the very pit of misery. Spirits of the dead are no doubt hovering behind me, gentle veil eagles that do no harm. In fact they spur me on because without my iron faith that death is not an end I would be a sorry and broken man.
These hours are desolate, not a hint of warmth or comfort, and as I am fond of saying, illness and mortality seem more inevitable now than at any other time of day. I feel it now; weak, morbid, slightly anxious and certain death will meet me in my next footstep. The twilight hours, when the sun is gone and sly things creep about in hedgegrows, are truly the dungeons of time. Dank little places where if rest comes hard one is doomed to stay, dragging every minute as if it were a month.
I glance down at the digital clock on the corner of the screen, 2:10am. An hour later I look again, 2:21am it reads. Almost smugly as if it knows I despise sober nights, when seconds are pulled by giant whales and submarines. Clocks have never been of any use to me, indeed they irritate to the chore. Trying to order my life, settle me down into routine when I demand none of it. I thrive in chaos and want to lead as disorderly life as I can before folding my arms and heading to the grave.
The blackness on the other side of the window is utterly pitch, as if a coal skinned demon was pressing his mighty gut againt the glass. No sane man, woman or beast should be conscious, but I sit like a leper cast out from the coma village while the clean people gather in their dreams for buttery scones and weird tasting tea.
Time is in syrup, lolligagging on a lazy shift. I could almost imagine being a condemned man on death row, living out his last night on earth but of course the wretched inmate will have his sleep when morning arrives (albeit a permanant one), whereas I will still have a struggle. Sleep comes hard for me because in order to sleep easily one must abandon thoughts and ideas, never an easy task to fidgety, creative types.
One of the reasons I drink so heavily is because alcohol is a fine blanket to smother the flame in my mind. Otherwise I would be forever spitting ideas into a notepad, shaping rhyme and stanzas. I need, as other wordy people have seemed to need also, a 'Switch Off' for my brain and gin does a splendid job. (Or any drink that numbs the senses). But nothing stronger than water has passed these lips today so here I sit, cladded inbetween cold and dark.
Would a film pass the time I wonder? On second thoughts no, it is now past 3am and the only thing to do is watch the clock and listen to excited American voices coming from computer speakers. I am not really listening though, it just makes a refreshing change than hearing my gloomy reports; 'Im dying! There's nothing outside but devils in the bushes! Not long now and i'll be dead for sure! Its cold!'
My whiny predictions could put merry sunshine into fits of depression, I have a knack for gothic overtures. It isn't an act or facade that I wear for attention, it is just me. I don't suit rays of light as petals of summer drop from my shoulders, it is much too fragile for my bulk. I am not a fairground carousel, dolling out happiness; I am the ghost train taking the innocent into shadows to corrupt or seduce.
I can feel my brow sag under a wave of tiredness but its fake, a rotten illusion to try and tempt me under the duvet. I know from bitter experience that should I retire and climb into bed, a weight would fall upon my chest forcing me to toss and turn, twitch like a pinball. Sure my eyelids are getting heavier with every stroke of time but I won't be fooled by them, I will sit here, softly stroking my liver through my skin and listen for poltergeists on the stairs.
Its in these hours that I believe prayer would be most heard. The pathetic televisions are dead, roads are idle and babes are safely in their cots so its peaceful, perfect conditions for a chat with the the Almighty. Rubbish of course because if God exists then He can hear above the honking of car horns and nonsense of television.
My mind is racing like a fly in a sardine tin; from dying and sleep to food and how fearsome my beard is looking. Eyes glued to the letters on the screen, sometimes glancing toward the stopped clock and at other times resting on the figures I have standing to attention next to the computer. Precious childhood toys that due to a small fires glow, sometimes appear to be alive as a orange light flickers across their plastic bodies.
I almost wish they were alive, they might have interesting conversation topics. One struggles to find anything of interest in the hours before dawn when the night air has most people gripped in its dream stained cotton fist, never to stir much before six. Its only poets, vagabonds, hoodlums and cats that are alert now as the time crawls up to 5am. Surely nothing disciplined is awake.
I feel drained, drunk without the euphoria. Hungover but dry. I feel sleep is closer now yet I am not looking forward to surrendering to my bed as I suppose normal people feel. Eventhough weariness is beginning to hang from my muscles like wet dish cloths I feel no relief that rest is near.
11:30am and so it proved true. I took my bloated carcass to the thorny nest as it just pipped 5:21am and for some moments lay in the inky light which had no intention of getting brighter at that ungodly hour. I picked up a book and read some paragraphs, hooks of sleep reeling me in on every word, but accompanying each tranquil rivulet were flashes of craziness whenever I shut my eyes.
Freaks hollered and twisted shapes ran amok throughout my mind; bug eyed, dagger nosed wolves eating their own arms, giant headed ants racing across bloodied sands hunting for God knows what but my heart went out for it. Swirls of nausea gripped my brain, fuelling a circus of odd characters and bizarre scenes which would flash ON and OFF over and over in my head. There is never any real fear from these violent palettes of colour but its a miserable way to drift into the shroud of dreams.
Combine those fevered pictures with a heavy heart and biting cold and its a wonder I did succumb to the gentle stabs of sleep but sleep I did. The horror finally gave way to soft pastures where furry things with happy eyes roamed and blood was warm from wine, not dripping from walls or blades. And I surrendered to it, leaving my stubbled cheeks to fend off the chill on their own.
Friday 8 January 2010
Headache From Snow Blushes
Britain is under thick blankets of snow (well most of it) and from the oily slush in car parks along with half empty supermarket shelves it would seem the flurries have again brought worries. *Cue silence for a quick sigh*
People do it all the time when weather turns bad but this is the UK, a country not known for severe conditions; here its either raining or grey. (Or if the weather sprites are feeling genorous we see a glimpse of sun). People go stark raving mad. I should be used to it by now but the eager paws in freezers and screeching jamboree of drunk trolleys have sneaked under my tolerance radar and flooded me out from my senses.
I would not usually have bothered to put it to print but all the chaos does highlight something else. Something almost quite tragic. The more I watch news reports of traffic jams and closed services the more it all reminds me of the bigger picture; we rush around, honking, sweating, clambering, stumbling, almost fearing while the snow and frost surround us like cruel borders, and that is all there is.
Our fear is never based on anything sensible and the snow that so easily disables us could just as easily be overcome but we choose not to for some obscure reason I have not yet deciphered (although i'll shoot for lack of interest for now). We might as well take iced routes straight into our graves.
Of course many try to reason, and some will attempt to fight either through religion or science, art or philosophy but theres never a significent revelation. We are born and live like prisoners suffering the 'Peine Forte et Dure', slowly crushed under increasing weights, the only difference being fashions, trends and news/ current affairs are placed upon our chests instead of iron and stone.
Strange how we risk everything at home. We have everything we need, yet insist on venturing out in lethal conditions risking life and limb to quell our insecurities, and it is these jittery dispositions that will contribute to our downfall. Not content with having one coal to heat our homes we will go in search of more, get lost in the bitter darkness as we wander, only to perish in the savage wilderness without even the single coal we had in the first place to save us!
It is utter madness, and testament to how simple minded and flawed human beings can be. We rattle around trying to have extra of everything (not a crime on its own), and trying to figure out the rhyme and reason to things when all we should be doing is taking stock of the things we have and be grateful. Being content has seldom been the ruin of anyone but living like a firework always shortens the fuse.
Back on the bigger canvas we are all frozen to one page, suffocating under the same old sun and sharpening bones to use against foreign bandits. We dare not attempt to cross the snowy borders, preferring to flock around pubs and markets to drink and gossip ourselves into oblivion. Which is fine because I suspect we wouldn't handle any more on our fragile plates, and also why life is so very short. If we lived 200 or 400 years we would be real insane, the years hanging from our mouldy skin in pus filled globules as melodies of sceince and morals assailed our already bloated minds until we could walk no more. The sheer weight of Life making us hunch as the countless months rolled on.
The tools to cure disease and famine are within every single human being, we can all be vessels of healing and discovery. But some allow their spirits to be driven by softer forces, more comfortable energies and understandably so because the valleys where more adventurous souls go to find answers to prayers are not places of light. Seldom are cures found in meadows of golden rays, more they held in nightmares, places where one risks themselves for the safety of others.
Everyone begins the same but life, real Life shaves us off and sprinkles our dust into avenues of our making. (Or to be more precise into avenues of our desires making). The drunk will become drunk, the insane insane, the morbid will become philosophers, the perverted become preachers and the children will get old and die.
The snow encases us within its icy, velvet grip and we thrive like bottled zombies fussing over simple meats. And when it melts, when even the frost from the tips of clouds and pockets of the deep melt, we shall harness our madness and conquer Death and everything beyond.
People do it all the time when weather turns bad but this is the UK, a country not known for severe conditions; here its either raining or grey. (Or if the weather sprites are feeling genorous we see a glimpse of sun). People go stark raving mad. I should be used to it by now but the eager paws in freezers and screeching jamboree of drunk trolleys have sneaked under my tolerance radar and flooded me out from my senses.
I would not usually have bothered to put it to print but all the chaos does highlight something else. Something almost quite tragic. The more I watch news reports of traffic jams and closed services the more it all reminds me of the bigger picture; we rush around, honking, sweating, clambering, stumbling, almost fearing while the snow and frost surround us like cruel borders, and that is all there is.
Our fear is never based on anything sensible and the snow that so easily disables us could just as easily be overcome but we choose not to for some obscure reason I have not yet deciphered (although i'll shoot for lack of interest for now). We might as well take iced routes straight into our graves.
Of course many try to reason, and some will attempt to fight either through religion or science, art or philosophy but theres never a significent revelation. We are born and live like prisoners suffering the 'Peine Forte et Dure', slowly crushed under increasing weights, the only difference being fashions, trends and news/ current affairs are placed upon our chests instead of iron and stone.
Strange how we risk everything at home. We have everything we need, yet insist on venturing out in lethal conditions risking life and limb to quell our insecurities, and it is these jittery dispositions that will contribute to our downfall. Not content with having one coal to heat our homes we will go in search of more, get lost in the bitter darkness as we wander, only to perish in the savage wilderness without even the single coal we had in the first place to save us!
It is utter madness, and testament to how simple minded and flawed human beings can be. We rattle around trying to have extra of everything (not a crime on its own), and trying to figure out the rhyme and reason to things when all we should be doing is taking stock of the things we have and be grateful. Being content has seldom been the ruin of anyone but living like a firework always shortens the fuse.
Back on the bigger canvas we are all frozen to one page, suffocating under the same old sun and sharpening bones to use against foreign bandits. We dare not attempt to cross the snowy borders, preferring to flock around pubs and markets to drink and gossip ourselves into oblivion. Which is fine because I suspect we wouldn't handle any more on our fragile plates, and also why life is so very short. If we lived 200 or 400 years we would be real insane, the years hanging from our mouldy skin in pus filled globules as melodies of sceince and morals assailed our already bloated minds until we could walk no more. The sheer weight of Life making us hunch as the countless months rolled on.
The tools to cure disease and famine are within every single human being, we can all be vessels of healing and discovery. But some allow their spirits to be driven by softer forces, more comfortable energies and understandably so because the valleys where more adventurous souls go to find answers to prayers are not places of light. Seldom are cures found in meadows of golden rays, more they held in nightmares, places where one risks themselves for the safety of others.
Everyone begins the same but life, real Life shaves us off and sprinkles our dust into avenues of our making. (Or to be more precise into avenues of our desires making). The drunk will become drunk, the insane insane, the morbid will become philosophers, the perverted become preachers and the children will get old and die.
The snow encases us within its icy, velvet grip and we thrive like bottled zombies fussing over simple meats. And when it melts, when even the frost from the tips of clouds and pockets of the deep melt, we shall harness our madness and conquer Death and everything beyond.
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