(no subject)
Procrastinating away the world of sea and fire to put off that which must be done and that which I must do. There is no rest for he who does not what one must, but the whole of debt is like the intrest of of the lender and constatly grows, you debt of time upayable until one is penniless and lost to the opportunity or the greatest of them all, the life. And so without saying a word one has casued his demsie, for nothing was worse evil and good was better than darkness. And in the light of the work one is redeemed to be refound and remade anew, forged into one piece of steel over the pian of being mad to write meanigless words on a page, words without sound or truth but only for the greed of others and yourself, for the acceptance of the controlling powers that say what one must learn to be a man. But no there is nothing that is less useful than that which is required to be done in the twilight of an hour.
It comes and goes upon the brink of the cliff which holds the way back and is the everpresent fall away from the timeless being whcih doth hold together the society. It that constricts and portects as a straight jacket must be put on a victim of his own grandeur and prey to his own delusion. The deluision of the force of the light that shines and glows and thinks and throws the eversame light upon the mind of those who come to seek it and they will find. For that is what we were told but it was not true at all. The thing that is lost can never be found as the tiny garden knomes of have hidden it in our childlike desire to find that which is not and does not seem to exist. That is the light of fortune and of salvation.
The fire of the phoenix that grows for a thousand years past the life of many men and then regrows for it has been renewed alive again; the fire for an eternity burns. And we damn it as pagan for it is beyond all things and beyond all power and uderstandign that such a preposterous thing could ever occur in our land of steadfast reason that we built to give us control and safety from the things we can not see or feel.
The music of power is the silent roaro of the whoosh of th train. The same train that takes one awau from what he is doing and sends him on a journey frather than the train of diesal could ever take him. He sees that whcih is not and that in itself is a feat great than that any waking man can ever force upon the weorld despite his power of eternal destruction and grandeur. The ambuiguity come and gone and went with the song of the overture that was never written, the 10th symphony of Beethoven, the finished Requiem of Mozart. All undone but yet known by there very incompletedness. it is the cloud that flies in the sky that we never truly understand or see the place of evrey molecule but nknow that it willa lways be tath way to us and to all men and that such order should be changed as it is the way we were meant to dream it. For it is all justa giant dream or is it.
On a brighter note I may update later.
C'est la vie que tout doit vivre,
MEB
It comes and goes upon the brink of the cliff which holds the way back and is the everpresent fall away from the timeless being whcih doth hold together the society. It that constricts and portects as a straight jacket must be put on a victim of his own grandeur and prey to his own delusion. The deluision of the force of the light that shines and glows and thinks and throws the eversame light upon the mind of those who come to seek it and they will find. For that is what we were told but it was not true at all. The thing that is lost can never be found as the tiny garden knomes of have hidden it in our childlike desire to find that which is not and does not seem to exist. That is the light of fortune and of salvation.
The fire of the phoenix that grows for a thousand years past the life of many men and then regrows for it has been renewed alive again; the fire for an eternity burns. And we damn it as pagan for it is beyond all things and beyond all power and uderstandign that such a preposterous thing could ever occur in our land of steadfast reason that we built to give us control and safety from the things we can not see or feel.
The music of power is the silent roaro of the whoosh of th train. The same train that takes one awau from what he is doing and sends him on a journey frather than the train of diesal could ever take him. He sees that whcih is not and that in itself is a feat great than that any waking man can ever force upon the weorld despite his power of eternal destruction and grandeur. The ambuiguity come and gone and went with the song of the overture that was never written, the 10th symphony of Beethoven, the finished Requiem of Mozart. All undone but yet known by there very incompletedness. it is the cloud that flies in the sky that we never truly understand or see the place of evrey molecule but nknow that it willa lways be tath way to us and to all men and that such order should be changed as it is the way we were meant to dream it. For it is all justa giant dream or is it.
On a brighter note I may update later.
C'est la vie que tout doit vivre,
MEB