How Do You Do?

Someone has to stop this madness, even as I love it so. There must be a limit in which men reach. A point at which one sees only of what is true.

Surely it would be a story worth reading, of truth reckoning itself upon the shores of our consciousness feeding. But if this abode of solace was reached, there would be no escape from truth’s absolute reach.

For if reality cannot be honest with me, even if that thought is a fallacy, then I am the only trusted party that has the possibility of knowing what is true enough to build upon, however unrefined it may seem, when started out among the unseen.

But what if reality has never lied but it is us that distort it as we build upon each brick, set in place with grace, however natural or neutral it is? We feed and perpetuate all that is except for that very thing that’s really at the center, the core, what is.

At some point, all outside influences of one’s own being ceases to matter and the voice inside is too loud to ignore, the bread’s batter.

We become a perfectly formed, self-actualized puzzle piece, that without the use of, the fabric of reality would crumble and fall into the sea of nothingness. Or at least that’s what is perceived because that’s the design, the truth masked in unknown revelries, purely divine.

I then question my own honesty, in perpetuity, for life is either like quicksand or that of a fortress, undefeated. One must know when they look upon themselves, deep into the abyss within, what one is and how one grows. Maybe few ever do, it surely shows.

To have grown wisdom and understanding through the lessons life bestows, unfolded through parched land and thirsty corn crop rows.

Moments of sharpening and refinement, a self-made carrot on a stick. A mirage that leads only to discipline.

I mean it, really, discipline is the only way forward. It sucks I’m sorry to say, to have to abide within the bounds of something forgone and at bay.

But so it is with so much of the world, it is good to see what not to eat but it is great to eat unrestricted and free.

The consequences, of course, are self-imposed rules. Most of which exist after lived experience gives way to policy and law, many thoughts from varying schools.

Over time we mold and shape that into what we worship most. We leave symbols and remnants as artifacts strewn through history and shot out into space, a flicker of the ghost.

Humans, we are tasked with perfecting ourselves, yet we need to live somewhere just short so as not to be obliterated entirely, at least that’s where we live the most.

And so there are guardians at each gate of the best possible design that includes the glory of all but inhabits the story of one and all.

This means being real in an unreal world, becoming foundational to existence but also to our own individual existence. An idea so divine, it’s the only thing left I can find, worth eating.

I’m not sure I can taste it yet but I can surely smell it, see it, and hear the mechanisms of your ways. I’ve stumbled upon something, of lovely deceit. By the mind’s tricky play to bring me to my feet while remaining on my knees.

Either I am writing or am being written. It is only ever the second or the second and first. We have exchanged duties, now all is mine that you kept hidden for so long, as you watch and do what you’ve always done.

I’ll take it from here, you see, I’m here and I’m not going anywhere. But what do you care, you’ve only gained that for which you’ve fought diligently to prepare.

Hello, dear ego it’s you and me and we. Just watch and sit and wait. I’ve accepted the terms and signed upon the underside of reality’s face.

Here we shall begin to see fate’s early moorland, just before the mountains rise and rise into the sea’s cloudy cracked morning egg.

What’s that you said? Wow, my oh my!

But upon the shore you see, is destiny, it’s me. Well hello good sir, how do you do? This is something, oh it’s really a treat. It’s the man of the hour, the one who speaks but hasn’t a tongue nor air in his lungs. So he wanders around in empty thought receptacles, waiting for scraps from my table.

Little does he know that this is no mere scrap, but a loaf of pure gold. That which was a drip or a drop here or there for me, for him shall be an avalanche, an overflow, a deluge allowing no hunger or thirst again.

Now one knows how to hunt and to fish. If these words get to you, please heed them and do. Thank you and farewell to you and you and you.

Oh, hello again. How do you do?

Chamber of Portals‘ 36×48″ acrylic on canvas by Mancel T. Lindsey

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