Absolution is rarely granted. Why would it be? Judgement is a passing place; it is not some level of finality which comes down upon us to serve its justice. If it doesn’t exist, how can it ever be revoked? We often have problematic attitudes to higher powers which smacks of infantile misconceptions.
Enthronement has always been my ambition; it brings a tear to me eye whenever I see it being depicted. I know that this is odd, but it is something I have experienced many times over the years. I see an ordinary person elevated to a position of supremacy, and I feel a surge I cannot yet place.
Gluttony is our currency; it is the mark of success and its absence rings of failure. That said, failure can be used as a totem, as the indicator of our worth, of our steel, of our self-control, and what greater evidence is there of our self-control than the voice of piety in the darkness of true gluttony?
Vacuous images flood the view, and yet we still push on. I am not one to criticise the imagery itself, for I feel that part of it is inadvertent. The issue is that not thinking is the greatest thoughtcrime. We fail to see the unintended pain our actions have, and those consequences are often all that remain.
Insipid wishes writ large on the face of a legend. Complexity scrawled indecipherably with the pen of the one creator. A hand unseen drawing the bow through the pulsating ocean. Blandishments and inconsequentialities taking the place of honest discourse and the will to allow truth to come through.
Contemptable faces falling short of their duties; falling short of the need of a society, wounded by its own pulsation: You do nothing but cause ill, and you will be remembered as such. We need truth, not games; we need progress, not stasis; we need certainty, not the machinations of your clique.
Greed was given as the answer, but it was rejected. This denied an underlying truth, which neither side would ever acknowledge: The need for more is a driving force, and to deny ourselves that piece of knowledge is to deny what makes us human; to deny what makes the human race forge on.
Love does not seem to be the goal for as many as one would hope; they desire acquisition, not love, and see that they are synonymous. They are not. Piety comes not from experience, but from the will to change oneself: will is rarely good enough on its own, and hard work is the currency so many lack.
Aggression is not as bad as you think it might be; and it does not depend on the viewpoint. If you say to me that there is no place for anger, then I am cut off from my emotional response. Could it ever be appropriate for me to say there is no place for tears? Would that not rob you of your expression?
Joy is a fallacy; pain is the only truth. In the same way that a pendulum swung wildly has no outward force carrying itself away from your hand, the sensation of joy is just the diminution of the sensation of pain. This is the only truth: once you have accepted it, you will be able to achieve anything at all.
Fear is no excuse. Why would it ever be? The idea that being afraid of doing something should be a barrier to taking the plunge and doing it may seem natural, but it is the one thing which holds you back. If you want it, if it moves you, if it will bring you to your being, you need to do it now.
Darkness is a warm place, yet it is light we seek. We crave the night, yet we live for the day. We fear what hides in the shadows, but we understand that it is only our cast off shoes, gathering cobwebs in the gloom. We are too old for monsters, and things which go bump, yet their memory remains.
Force must be applied, in almost all instances; it is difficult to proceed without. Force, however, is not a means itself, only a route through the difficult. Getting over the threshold of momentum has a higher cost than that of keeping things moving consistently. We often fail to take this in to account.
Conceptions of form are imaginary. The human mind is a pattern matcher, and it seeks its own image all around. Many times, this is a false positive, and we should choose to ignore the signal. We are children, learning to walk, only with our eyes as instruments. We are not seeing the truth yet.
Abject pity has no place in the world we imagine. There is only room for exultation, for the feeling of huge joy is the high we crave. Anything else is dull and brown and moribund, and coarse. This is a sensation which must be avoided: the middle ground is full of such sweet treats beyond imagining.
Torsion holds the body in place as the momentum builds and shifts. We experience our fears in an odd variety of forms, pulsating through the skeleton as the body curls around it. This is not the way the sensation was supposed to exhibit, but it feels natural enough to be right. We give in to it all.
Bewildering lights fall upon the face of the divine; colours fill the space, cascading across the pores and lighting up the finest detail. We are in rapture to the rhythm of the light. If we knew that this was all but a distraction from the pain, how many of us would give in to it, and lie down dead?
Stultifying boredom graces the land of the one true mercy. It is only the image of a cross, yet we pray to it still. We are free to leave, but the price we have paid so far seems too great. There must be something at the end of this, lest our input has been taken from us as theft. Mindcrime is thought.
Grandeur beholden, a windswept mirage: We are barnacles, clinging to an unseen vessel, washing back and forth through the foam and the spray and the wash and the motion. We perceive only the magnificence, and none of the detail; that is our cross to bear, and the root of our solutions.
Encapsulated in a moment is a death; A strange look of a complete absence, written over the face of a stranger. Is it possible to help them or is the image you have glimpsed been misread, a projection of your own internalised woe? Do strangers ever want or need our help? I’m not sure they ever do.