Complacency

It has been revealed to me how truly complacent I am. So often I pray that I would be fully awakened from the spiritual sleepiness that drifts around like a fine mist, yet I have no energy to thrust away the drowsiness. My eyes seem glued shut with sleep, yet I am comfortable, just the way I am, lacking any further diligence other than that required to crawl slowly through the stages of earthly life. Though I may occasionally strive for higher understanding, to attempt to live a life of meaning, and to be a good example, I may never achieve that highest standard that has been set. Not alone. It is only by His grace and mercy that I may even breath, that I continue to exist. My struggles belong to no-one but myself, because I am a human being. All that I could ever be out of my own fleshly self is lower than the dust of the earth, self-centered and shallow, blown to and fro by every stirring breeze that happens upon the dusty road. Despite this state of utter deprecation and sluggishness taht I seem to be trapped in, I am comfortable. I am seemingly content with loosing, willing to quit running the race if I become even slight,y out of breath, constantly being distracted from the goal that lies ahead. I say I want to finish the race, to achieve the goal, and often I think to myself how wonderful it will be, yet my heart is not set on it. I live as one who has no true purpose in life, other than achieving those goals common to members of the society I live in. Go to school, get a degree, build a resume, start a career, find a wife, start a family, raise children, try to get past all the hardships in life without stumbling too badly, and eventually end up in the grave to become a pile of carbon molecules at the bottom of an oblong box. Perhaps my name will be found in the archives one day, and passed on as something utterly insignificant, but the person, the body, soul, and spirit will be absent, forgotten in the myriads of generations to come. Perhaps I have yet to believe that it is really true, despite the fact that it has happened countless times before. Yet again, perhaps I have built a wall of excuses, so that no change might squeeze its way through into my life. So then, I am complacent. I will say then that I hate my state of comfort, and sneer at it with utter derision. I have purposed to wrench myself free of its bondage, to take a stand for the One I believe in, whose purpose I have been called to fulfill. Yet here I stay, spreadeagled in the muck like swine in mud. I need His help, He must give me more faith, for within my own soul, no faithfulness can be found.

The Scantron Machine Film

The Scantron Machine Film

Vast Intensity

In the two hundred and thirty-one months that I have been on this earth, many things have changed, are currently in the process, and will continue to be formed with the progression of time. Among the innumerable quantities of entities, existences, the infinite possibilities and the events that end up happening, I am one. Even the identity that I perceive myself to be is composed of quantities, proportions, tangible and intangible objects that, when they are dissected, pulled apart by thought processes, are found to contain entire volumes of more things. The effect is indescribable and phenomenal, vast in every direction, limited only by the words used to describe it.

Deprecation

A sense of utter loss within,
ignoring the world outside that of the mind,
Wandering in the paths of insanity
Blasting thoughts, and a rising, formless desire
to be lost in the darkness all around,
yet still sensing the borders
that are immersed in a sludge of sin
All goes on within the invisible world
hidden from any earthly eyes.
Unimaginable to all but one,
yet receiving glimpses of similarity
that strike the uniqueness back from reality.
Giving form to words,
images that could never be painted
but are forgotten instantaneously.
The vastness that might only be
the result of a chemical imbalance.
Such that these words become aimless,
mindless wanderings
devoid of any meaning to the universe.
It is but one fools perspective that
the discourse is one of wisdom,
that it is unique
And yet still, the self-importance clings
and the lines of discernment
become inevitably blurred.
The fabric is torn and marred,
trampled under the hooves of cattle
down below, where the dust is pounded
into miniature swirling clouds,
and the grass roots are torn up
to be left flapping helplessly
in the screaming winds of commotion.
There is a lack of conviction
in every word that is spoken
as if the bubble of thoughts
has become disconnected from the machinery
and floated into boundless space.
Once the fuel has flown,
the unworthy tongue sets in,
drawing from the toxic piles of sundry
that lie skewed asunder
destined to be burned,
though they still exist
to create thick curdling smoke
that chokes out any form of life
and causes the filth of hypocrisy
to flow forth in abundance.
Sinking into the mire,
the narrow way shrinks to the eye of a needle
And all hope seems lost.
This is deprecation.

Red Light

An idea in isolation,
surrounded by swirling clouds
of a dark, fathomless mist.
In the center of inky splatters of darkness
is a pulsing, crimson light,
emitting a soft warm glow
from edges so defined
yet unfocused.
And so the lens must turned
adjusted, and cranked,
until the light comes gradually into focus
and the idea becomes manifest
completed, with fangs and slashing claws.
dragging the mind into its depths.

Flown Lightning

The feeling of self-perceived strength,
invincibility that leaves angry shock on the faces
staring with red holes gaping angrily through cloudy glass panes
flapping hands, fingers sliding into the shape of unicorn
to thrust forward.
A turmoil is taking place
the lust for attention, a spotlight
to be acknowledged by strangers as
someone filled with scathing power,
to instill fearful admiration
and flee for a moment from their own enclosed worlds,
boxes of thoughts and worries,
and whirlwinds of paper leaves, scattered asunder
just to see, and to be filled with awe.
Ignoring stark reality,
for which there is now only
a dim awareness.
Still there is a will to possess humanity,
to be known in this way
Yet so often the words fail,
the emotions become entangled like
intestines dragged out by clawing branches
And lightning storms through inside
wishing to be flown, exploding in blinding streaks
of destructive power.

911 Emergency

Paramedics, police, or fire department?
A passing thought, why not just bring all three?

There he is, curled up in a painfully skinny little huddle, blood tinging thin lips, twitching bald forehead, clothed with shredded rags, sobbing while he babbles in a thin piping voice about his traumatic experience just a few minutes over.

The firetruck arrives, along with the paramedics.

For all the world cares, the shivering creature on the curb side in the back of a fast-food drive-thru is a insignificant bug that was toppled over on its back. He takes on an appearance as less than human, no one even asks his name.

He has little in his small world, much like a bug crawling around the ground, dwarfed by towering blades of grass. The bigger bad bugs have fled the scene, leaving behind a pile of junk and empty beer bottles.

A bird flies across the deserted lot, and a car passes down the street, blasting heavy metal for all the world to hear.