DISINTEGRATION- Jersey Flight

In this time frame; in the specific year of my life X___ there is disintegration. I can feel my powers weaken, and who else can know these powers better than I (and if I do not know them then who can know them)? Perhaps they are known to no one? Perhaps there is nothing to be lost?

But life takes place on a fine edge; the world itself is suspended by a string. Quality is severed with a knife, like a razor to cut the string. We can only say that Socrates falls into an Abyss (or perhaps he has become the Abyss)? AM I THE ABYSS OF MYSELF, as both the shadow and the form that casts the shadow? 

At moments there is weeping like a child; like a scream that penetrates to the heart of the earth and yet goes nowhere; it does not escape the center from which it came. 

I am no Eagle; not a Falcon that takes flight... through the slime I must crawl, and one is ever pressed deeper by the nonsense of that which placates itself as meaning. 

Where is the Reformer? Ours is not an age of Heroes but a time of pretenders. One prays that we will grow tired of pretending!

And then there are the Holy Men who come before us speaking lies; claiming with all authority that they alone speak the Truth. But are these really Truth speakers? 

One who knows best knows that these men have delivered themselves from sorrow only by the act of delusion---- would that we could partake in their delusion! But alas, there is too much of reason to swallow the poison of their lies (real philosophers are painfully honest). And so they tell us their lies are sweet (they lie about the nature of their lies). 

We dig deep into the earth in search of Meaning. We scour the surface of the sun... but eventually the seeker goes blind.

Even now I can see the preacher standing on his hill in the distance. How quickly he becomes a viper; how fiercely he is able to lunge. And even thus, there is no chewing, for these men swallow their prey whole. 

O man of the earth, you are not allowed to mourn your captivity! You are not allowed to shake your first at the sun (as once the poet spit in the face of time). 

Every protest shall be turned against you until you are consumed by the sorrow of your flame.

Let the Nightingale sing as the laughter of fools pierces what is left of your heart. One hears the sound of glass breaking on the street somewhere in the distance (as a metaphor for the breaking of the mind).

He that walks in dry deserts will be scorched by the sun.

All the powers that make you will one day fail you... and then, what will you make of this petty man? For the simpleton runs to God, he is the worst idiot and fool, he is the Lion prowling through the tall grass of the field. Does he but smell your despair he will smother you like he smothers all his prey. There is no mercy; he will crush your neck by the power of his jaw!

The path has been set; you must walk the line or become the enemy of yourself. Such a man pokes a hole in his belly only to fill it with dirt; O mighty guilt!

But there are great men who thwart these beasts. How many have raised their fists against the sun? He that wields the spear is as he that bears the sword.  

I have seen men that stand like statues even though they have no statues of their own. We can only admire the strength of such men.

How deep is the drive that resists the authoritarian tongue? I say all fighters begin this way.  But those who finish are the greatest fighters of all.

But even strength is not enough; for one could descend into madness. "Look here, he is a mumbling fool." Though Aristotle may have been wise this did not save him from the disintegration of himself.

He that once held the pen steady must now be held himself. As the shaking of fists so is the shaking of his heart. For the mind to break is the most terrible tragedy that can befall a thinker. This exhortation is to the young. 

X___ will eventually decline.
               
"Nature will strike you worse than any viper," weeps the old man. 

But still men light the torch; they go forth into dark caves, led on by the power of courage, but courage is not enough. He that wanders the Labyrinth will eventually get lost; for here the darkness is infinite; for here the caverns are endless. Every now and then a cautious traveler stumbles upon one that is lost; his light reveals the madness of forgetfulness... there, crouched in a dark corner, spinning lies to himself (or perhaps what is worse) the prisoner of his own confusion. O irreparable disintegration! And as your lamp penetrates the darkness to reveal his face...

THOSE EYES HAUNT YOU!  

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