That is something everyone, at some time or another, has asked themselves. And everyone has their own interpretation of what life is for, meaning it is for whatever we want it. We have been given a choice on how we use our life. Some individuals have seen that life is too short, and want to have as much fun as possible before they go out, and that is their choice. Other dedicate themselves to what are considered by many to be "worthy" causes, and thus the point of their life is, in most cases, to make other people prosperous and happy to the best of their abilities. And religion is a thing that we have made our own, until it has become our own creation. We interpret everything as we see fit, even creating new gods and entities from our imaginations, and conforming our minds to follow them. The irony of this lies in the fact that we follow blindly what we have created, mere figments of our imagination, and in this sense, we are practically following ourselves. And still we look for an objective, a hidden goal in life that we may accomplish it, and thus find the real point in life. Everyone is searching, trying to fill themselves up, throwing everything the world has to offer into the gaping void inside of them, trying to find a point. Some even say there is no point, and still they live on, living simply for the sake of living, feeling empty, searching for something that is missing. It is as if every individual was born with a ravenous hunger, not only the need to live, but to find a point. And in the end, everyone plays the game of life, which is nothing more than chasing themselves around in circles, with each cycle approaching the inevitable end of death. We were given a mind capable of questioning, even our very existence, and yet it seems better not to question, because we have no real answer within us. Thus, we are still left empty, and searching, running in circles.
No one goes back to the true source, the one who created us. If He created us, he must surely have a purpose for us, other than being pawns on a giant chess board or just amusement. And still, this is a thought that comes to mind, one that we avoid at all costs because or mind knows it is a possibility if God really were the way we perceived Him to be. And still, no one asks Him, because of our unbelief and the fact that, we are inclined to trust ourselves, and the things that we have created in our own little worlds. So we continue to philosophize and interpret, making up answers to every possible question that comes to our minds, running the cycles, and fulfilling nothing. It is a subject our mind cannot handle.
To say that our purpose in life is to do nothing more than search for people to convert to Christianity, so that we can go to some obscure place that we do not even know about called "heaven" and thank God for an eternity, is a result of twisted words and teachings made for men to blindly follow. It is true, according to the Bible, that God wants us to bring his life to others, but it goes much further than that. There is a purpose in this, one much greater than the latter, that can only be seen if one communicates with the Master architect, the one who holds the plans. We are indeed free to make choices in our daily lives, so let us make this one. Will we continue to rely on ourselves, and to run in worthless circles, or will we turn to God's Word to find the answer?
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Disguised
All through the ages
We strive to impress
and disguise the fact that we do not care
Unable to recognize the few that do
We say we are conscious,
and yet still we are blinded
The fact that we say we are open-minded
is closed mindedness
It is still a category,
created for its order, because no matter what
we are unable to fully comprehend
completely limited by our minds
Knowing much,
but knowing nothing
living for something that is nothing
an excuse that was created by us
and talking brings us nowhere
Chaotic thought, emotions streaming
hindered by language and words
feeling that there is still something more
when perhaps there is
No matter
It is still unattainable
Turn back to focus on trivialities,
And forget about the nonexistent
Till out whole vision is filled with
the great screen of our life.
We give ourselves power that is useless
Since we were children
We never stopped pretending.
Making believe that there can be acceptance
when we are too far gone, wedged in our separate tunnels
Seeing light where it is not
And refuting the truth.
Insolent claims, that there is one truth
They will be trashed
And forgotten
Everyone has their own way,
But we are all deceived.
We strive to impress
and disguise the fact that we do not care
Unable to recognize the few that do
We say we are conscious,
and yet still we are blinded
The fact that we say we are open-minded
is closed mindedness
It is still a category,
created for its order, because no matter what
we are unable to fully comprehend
completely limited by our minds
Knowing much,
but knowing nothing
living for something that is nothing
an excuse that was created by us
and talking brings us nowhere
Chaotic thought, emotions streaming
hindered by language and words
feeling that there is still something more
when perhaps there is
No matter
It is still unattainable
Turn back to focus on trivialities,
And forget about the nonexistent
Till out whole vision is filled with
the great screen of our life.
We give ourselves power that is useless
Since we were children
We never stopped pretending.
Making believe that there can be acceptance
when we are too far gone, wedged in our separate tunnels
Seeing light where it is not
And refuting the truth.
Insolent claims, that there is one truth
They will be trashed
And forgotten
Everyone has their own way,
But we are all deceived.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
A Search for Nothing
Love is non-existent,
Except as a mere attitude inspired by art.
It is a dark thought, and one to avoid at all costs
But it certainly does hold some truth to it.
I immerse myself in its folds, and still find nothing.
And so it seems that we have hearts of stone.
Except as a mere attitude inspired by art.
It is a dark thought, and one to avoid at all costs
But it certainly does hold some truth to it.
I immerse myself in its folds, and still find nothing.
And so it seems that we have hearts of stone.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Insignificance
The Universal emotion, the thought
of the century.
And still the unanswerable questions
idle in our minds.
For all that we can do,
in building our sky-cities, and having dominion on the earth
Sectioning it off into orderly polygons and shapes,
Creating sense out of chaos,
our own little worlds created
by our perceptions,
still, we flee away from the thought
of insignificance.
It is a terrifying thought,
that the world is no more than dust
blown away over a heaving, formless ocean.
And so we cling to the perceived reality
pitifully, unable to accept
that perhaps love does not exist,
that it is no more than a passing attitude.
of the century.
And still the unanswerable questions
idle in our minds.
For all that we can do,
in building our sky-cities, and having dominion on the earth
Sectioning it off into orderly polygons and shapes,
Creating sense out of chaos,
our own little worlds created
by our perceptions,
still, we flee away from the thought
of insignificance.
It is a terrifying thought,
that the world is no more than dust
blown away over a heaving, formless ocean.
And so we cling to the perceived reality
pitifully, unable to accept
that perhaps love does not exist,
that it is no more than a passing attitude.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
A Parking Lot
Gazing into a cloudy, darkened sky
Shafts of light peering through the gaps
Illuminating in the midst of shadowy grayness
And far above, on gilded wings
A feathered apparition glides in endless spirals.
The sudden crash of noise slams home the reality
of a parking lot.
Raucous calling of blackened rags
flapping over asphalt and over cars
There is work to be done.
Shafts of light peering through the gaps
Illuminating in the midst of shadowy grayness
And far above, on gilded wings
A feathered apparition glides in endless spirals.
The sudden crash of noise slams home the reality
of a parking lot.
Raucous calling of blackened rags
flapping over asphalt and over cars
There is work to be done.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
It could have been anybody
It could have been anyone,
but it was me.
Why was it me, and not somebody else?
It was her, and not another.
It was him, and he was the one chosen.
And they all leave behind trails like the burning paths of stars
Blazing streams of light all across the universe, some brighter than others
Starting where someone else left off.
Countless bands, yet each one individual
Embossed by the blackness all around, while others fade away
Faint retrospections that are almost lost, adding gray to the blackness
In ever darker shades, colorless centipedes.
Some have with them fire, and with victorious sparks
Light into great blue flames the struggling light gray shapes, in the dawn of their time
Their time, which has an end
An end in the endlessness of eternity.
So all I can do is cut out a door right in the middle of the floor
Because I refuse to look up and see the sky.
but it was me.
Why was it me, and not somebody else?
It was her, and not another.
It was him, and he was the one chosen.
And they all leave behind trails like the burning paths of stars
Blazing streams of light all across the universe, some brighter than others
Starting where someone else left off.
Countless bands, yet each one individual
Embossed by the blackness all around, while others fade away
Faint retrospections that are almost lost, adding gray to the blackness
In ever darker shades, colorless centipedes.
Some have with them fire, and with victorious sparks
Light into great blue flames the struggling light gray shapes, in the dawn of their time
Their time, which has an end
An end in the endlessness of eternity.
So all I can do is cut out a door right in the middle of the floor
Because I refuse to look up and see the sky.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
I Will Time Travel
I only wish I had a better memory...
Everything just became too monotonous, even with the light glittering on the surface of the water, casting thousands of facets across the pool deck like shattered glass.
So I went out for a bike ride.
All was quiet and seemed to sleep in the sweeping hand of the warm breeze that traveled all the way from the beach, and I can smell the faintest smell of the ocean waves, in the midst of all the jumbled pollutions and crashing smoke of smokestacks and exhaust pipes.
Then I saw.
On the side of the road there was a small black rag, that was not a rag, but a tangled mess of feathers twisted into a grotesque shape like the claws of death. Little threads of raw life all dried up seeping through shining fibers that had lost their sheen, turned into dull blackness, like strings of tar forgotten on the roadside.
So it goes.
And I rode on, into a large expanse of concrete, dotted at intervals down the center with trees covered in purple blossoms, standing out boldly against the dark grayness and stark white lines. A silver car was parked lazily in the shade of a purple tree, with sunlight shining off its streamlined hide. The shiny metal surface was being whisked to even greater heights of polished perfection by a rainbow colored duster, its wispy hairs blown sweeping gently across the Civic as the small lady in the purple shirt that matched the trees dusted busily. With her trimly cut black dress pants and pointy shoes, she moved quickly, half of her face hidden in a pair of expansive brown sunglasses that perched on her nose. What she was doing, no one knows.
Will no one remember?
I will time travel.
Now I am gone, and her existence still is, and was, and will be until it is gone. So will the sorry little rag of feathers by the side of life's unknown road, and the policeman parked across the lot, eating a donut.
Everything just became too monotonous, even with the light glittering on the surface of the water, casting thousands of facets across the pool deck like shattered glass.
So I went out for a bike ride.
All was quiet and seemed to sleep in the sweeping hand of the warm breeze that traveled all the way from the beach, and I can smell the faintest smell of the ocean waves, in the midst of all the jumbled pollutions and crashing smoke of smokestacks and exhaust pipes.
Then I saw.
On the side of the road there was a small black rag, that was not a rag, but a tangled mess of feathers twisted into a grotesque shape like the claws of death. Little threads of raw life all dried up seeping through shining fibers that had lost their sheen, turned into dull blackness, like strings of tar forgotten on the roadside.
So it goes.
And I rode on, into a large expanse of concrete, dotted at intervals down the center with trees covered in purple blossoms, standing out boldly against the dark grayness and stark white lines. A silver car was parked lazily in the shade of a purple tree, with sunlight shining off its streamlined hide. The shiny metal surface was being whisked to even greater heights of polished perfection by a rainbow colored duster, its wispy hairs blown sweeping gently across the Civic as the small lady in the purple shirt that matched the trees dusted busily. With her trimly cut black dress pants and pointy shoes, she moved quickly, half of her face hidden in a pair of expansive brown sunglasses that perched on her nose. What she was doing, no one knows.
Will no one remember?
I will time travel.
Now I am gone, and her existence still is, and was, and will be until it is gone. So will the sorry little rag of feathers by the side of life's unknown road, and the policeman parked across the lot, eating a donut.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Released
And finally, that phase which may henceforth be referred to as "the experiment" has finally reached its termination point.
No more are my thoughts confined to a vague and slightly dead perspective using the third person. No longer will the meaning be buried so thickly in shrouds of misty words, that all the reader can make of it is a garbled mass of vocabulary.
No more are my thoughts confined to a vague and slightly dead perspective using the third person. No longer will the meaning be buried so thickly in shrouds of misty words, that all the reader can make of it is a garbled mass of vocabulary.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Escape
Escape from reality
Put on a mask
not to be recognized
riding in the rising darkness
soft shards of purple flashing
in the distant sky
Riding along, becoming
something else
An observer of all to behold
Passing stares reflecting
off impenetrable mirrors
Rushing down the way
Lithe movements
One destination in focus
A place of high standing.
Till the top is reached
Where all can be seen
And still the stares
reflect from the impassable
mirrors of anonymity.
Put on a mask
not to be recognized
riding in the rising darkness
soft shards of purple flashing
in the distant sky
Riding along, becoming
something else
An observer of all to behold
Passing stares reflecting
off impenetrable mirrors
Rushing down the way
Lithe movements
One destination in focus
A place of high standing.
Till the top is reached
Where all can be seen
And still the stares
reflect from the impassable
mirrors of anonymity.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Fallen
Down into the mud
Fallen flat
Fearing to rise
Covered in slime
Fallen to lowest pits
Into utter disregard
Hypocrisy
Fallen into the depths
Cry for rain to cleanse
Fallen flat
Fearing to rise
Covered in slime
Fallen to lowest pits
Into utter disregard
Hypocrisy
Fallen into the depths
Cry for rain to cleanse
Thursday, March 13, 2008
The Dome
Not of Kubla Kan
nor son born
but inspired in channels
of thought
A place created that could never have been
Naught but a wish
Where moonlight shines unblinking
silvery illumination
of a darkened silhouette
demon features screaming
over mountains
marked by icy caverns
diamonds gleaming coldly
as needles
though the darkest passages
blinded by sudden light
over the greenest hilltop
into the midst of war
chaos reigning everywhere
and bones splinter
while flesh discerned
lies choking
the impossible
is become reality
the creation is brought to life
products of imagination
a legacy forever
burned into stone minds.
nor son born
but inspired in channels
of thought
A place created that could never have been
Naught but a wish
Where moonlight shines unblinking
silvery illumination
of a darkened silhouette
demon features screaming
over mountains
marked by icy caverns
diamonds gleaming coldly
as needles
though the darkest passages
blinded by sudden light
over the greenest hilltop
into the midst of war
chaos reigning everywhere
and bones splinter
while flesh discerned
lies choking
the impossible
is become reality
the creation is brought to life
products of imagination
a legacy forever
burned into stone minds.
In the Midst
In the Midst
of that immense of darkness
mired deeply below,
and from every side suppressed
There is a light,
of consciousness
struggling feebly
threatening to be overpowered
by black banks of clouds
moving to shut off
all avenues of thought
engulfed in shadow
still the light remains.
of that immense of darkness
mired deeply below,
and from every side suppressed
There is a light,
of consciousness
struggling feebly
threatening to be overpowered
by black banks of clouds
moving to shut off
all avenues of thought
engulfed in shadow
still the light remains.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Uncertainty
"He that controls the past controls the future." When the past has faded to gray, and the awareness is gone, then is the time when someone will step in, and plant false memories that will spring up like weeds in the minds of individuals.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Abstractions of Controversey
Life consists of conflict, and conflict serves none but itself. Even if there is no comprehension of the meaning thereof, the conflict in aroused nonetheless.
There is a hidden world, coexisting with the one of false happiness, that often invades, breaking through the thin shell that separates from reality, and this world is one of conflicts, of judgements, both malicious and justified. There is no order in this realm, only complete chaos, judgements that have no consistency, contradictions everywhere. There, the intellectuals set forth their works of precision in the midst of chaotic trash, covered with a sludge of thoughtlessness.
And again, the pointed remarks, designed to slide delicately under the skin, join with hefty sledgehammers in complete disunity. For truly, there is no equality among man.
There is a hidden world, coexisting with the one of false happiness, that often invades, breaking through the thin shell that separates from reality, and this world is one of conflicts, of judgements, both malicious and justified. There is no order in this realm, only complete chaos, judgements that have no consistency, contradictions everywhere. There, the intellectuals set forth their works of precision in the midst of chaotic trash, covered with a sludge of thoughtlessness.
And again, the pointed remarks, designed to slide delicately under the skin, join with hefty sledgehammers in complete disunity. For truly, there is no equality among man.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
The Fascination of the Abomination
The fascination of he abomination. To become immersed in the thing that seeks to consume. When everything is abandoned behind, with gaze unmoving, slack-jawed, weak, helpless to resist. Always there, tempting. "The horror!"
There is the jungle all around, whispering dark promises, appealing to us, tempting us onward into its depths. Even in the water, all around that little tin can of a boat, there is a darkness. So easily bewitched by that Siren-like call. And yet, those that resist must have strength, a resilience to being swept away by the tide.
When all barriers are removed, no restraints, when no one seems to be watching, then the fascination slithers stealthily, engulfing in thick mire, until at last, it has wrenched every value, snatched every barrier. Then consumed by the abomination, now made one. Utterly torn away, never again the same, wild and utterly free, yet fallen, despicable in the eyes of society. Capable of anything, things unimaginable to the civilized mind.
Cast back into the boiling river the abomination from whence it came. That which eyes of seen may never be experienced. No man is strong enough alone, he is the essence of weakness.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
The Scantron Machine
Clicking away
Throughout the day,
Oblivious to all else,
Living on electricity,
Consuming paper,
Unconscious and uncaring,
Yet powerful,
Determining the fate of the students,
Judging not by character,
By charisma,
By efficiency,
But only by one ability.
That most useful
And irreplaceable ability
To color in
Marked areas.
Not artistically or abstractly,
Not with willful power and thought,
But exactly, within the borders
And no further
Lest there be dire consequences
For the scantron machine
Has much power
And will punish those that dare think
Outside of the bubble it has created.
All hail the scantron machine,
For it has the power to discern
Between those who are worthy
And those that are not.
Between those that are smart
And those that are of lesser intellect.
It is the Great Fuhrer,
On its cue we must lay our fate.
When we have finished the days work,
When emptied our brains onto the scantron
And conformed our minds to fit
Into miniature bubbles of thought,
Then we must wait in great apprehension
To see what the scantron machine
Has made of our work.
Behold the excitement
The results have come back
In the form of a piece of paper
With symbols and letters on it.
Ah, what show of emotion there is
When the students gather round'
In fervent and silent pleading
That might have gained favor
Enholding the scantron machine.
Those that have not
Are faced with despair
And a future as garbage men.
Those that do,
They will be prosperous
And ever stuck in a rut
As creatures of habit.
Never daring to think,
Away from the path.
Ever obedient servants
To that great and mighty
Scantron Machine.
In honor of Finals Week.
Throughout the day,
Oblivious to all else,
Living on electricity,
Consuming paper,
Unconscious and uncaring,
Yet powerful,
Determining the fate of the students,
Judging not by character,
By charisma,
By efficiency,
But only by one ability.
That most useful
And irreplaceable ability
To color in
Marked areas.
Not artistically or abstractly,
Not with willful power and thought,
But exactly, within the borders
And no further
Lest there be dire consequences
For the scantron machine
Has much power
And will punish those that dare think
Outside of the bubble it has created.
All hail the scantron machine,
For it has the power to discern
Between those who are worthy
And those that are not.
Between those that are smart
And those that are of lesser intellect.
It is the Great Fuhrer,
On its cue we must lay our fate.
When we have finished the days work,
When emptied our brains onto the scantron
And conformed our minds to fit
Into miniature bubbles of thought,
Then we must wait in great apprehension
To see what the scantron machine
Has made of our work.
Behold the excitement
The results have come back
In the form of a piece of paper
With symbols and letters on it.
Ah, what show of emotion there is
When the students gather round'
In fervent and silent pleading
That might have gained favor
Enholding the scantron machine.
Those that have not
Are faced with despair
And a future as garbage men.
Those that do,
They will be prosperous
And ever stuck in a rut
As creatures of habit.
Never daring to think,
Away from the path.
Ever obedient servants
To that great and mighty
Scantron Machine.
In honor of Finals Week.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)