How many days must pass until the truth is revealed? I know and they know too, that life, and living, well… there’s no standard, and no true way. For one slips into the next, and the next into its neighbours. All that ever was, is, and all that will be… that’s something else entirely. Pondering questions of the future, and what that future has in store. Maybe a remedy, maybe something that reveals all there is to see and know. For we are young, living the passion of youth. A careless melody, starved in a crusade for truth. Lies they run our commons, biting and bruising all that we leave in the light of day. And we feel all under the light of the moon, the dusk, and the shortening of days. Because, in the end, we are all that we are…
Tunnels bored deep through the Earth,
With their scarred edges,
And their crumbling domes.
Remnants from a time long since passed;
From a war-torn, ravaged, blood-soaked land.
The Tunnels… where else could one stand?
Exiled from what was inherently known.
Adjudicated to those lengths of darkness,
Eternally winding, waning, wailing…
Bringing tears to the strongest,
Cries of forgiveness from those who sinned.
For the Tunnels make all men mortal again.
In the towns that were made,
Steel latched to the stone, girders afloat.
Women glance from the windows, down towards the pits.
Where the men work, sweat and steam – ingrained.
Bones aching – the simple desire to live.
All whilst the ground above remains unseen;
People tell stories of the sky and the sea,
Slipping over into sleep, dreaming of colour vividly.
Where once there was red and blue,
Replaced by replications of grey and brown.
Complex in the way the mind works,
Trapped down there, formicary in the making.
No names – why should one be named?
In such darkness, individuality is cast aside.
Little distinction between the living, the dying, and the dead.
People driven to insanity by what might have been.
Life in the Tunnels, an all-consuming conviction.
Freedom a pipe-dream – jumbled dreams, blinding reality.
Some believe in what the Tellers tell;
A kingdom beyond the tunnels, beyond the boundary.
Lands of colour, love, and elated living.
But they are fables only, preached and sold,
To the weakest, the riddled, and the old…
The damned know that this is their world now;
Life lived in sullen, contemptuous, foreboding darkness.
Bitterness rushing through every beating heart.
Skin translucent after countless ages.
Most, they lay in wait for their yearned after Saviour.
An image, a spectre – hallucinatory at best.
Inaction in the hands of all those that mindlessly wander.
The Tunnels – they boast only two clear directions.
*A little later than promised, but hey, it’s here….
Revelations From the Depths
Across the lake, the sun was beginning to set. Slowly, the sky changed from a pale yellow to a deepening orange. It glinted from the very points of the ripples, casting rays in all directions, illuminating the water in exotic colours.
Across, towards the other bank, the land rose sharply, covered in a thick layer of deep-green fir trees. As I bobbed up and down in the tiny rowing boat, the distance between there and here seemed immense, unfathomable. It was as though the water stretched outwards almost indefinitely, as if its end – the sandy banks, were nothing more than an illusion that one could never dream of reaching.
The resistance of the water pushed back against my palms, as my hands did well-practiced semi-circles, grasping the oars, pushing the tiny craft onwards. I cut my way through the orange water, headed towards the far Eastern point of the lake where it thinned and morphed into the outgoing river. There, the waters became shallow. Reeds and numerous other aquatic plants burst through the surface. Above the faint sound of running of water, the beating of dragonflies’ wings could be heard – darting gracefully from one perch to the next.
I stopped rowing, and brought the oars to rest on the damp bottom of the boat. I let my mind wander, from the farthest bank, to the nearest water lily, all the way to the sun, and back to the rippling water. The boat slowly drifted towards the mouth of the river, though, the motion was almost imperceptible – like a slow rocking, cradling me, ushering me into relaxing pastures. I let it happen, as my body forgave its rigidity, as my breaths slowed, as all my worries seemed to evaporate and become caught in the gentle Autumn breeze; carried away to distant lands, to be noticed by nobody.
Cacophonous in the fighting of souls.
Throned by acts of self-servitude;
With the hatred, the deposition of all obstacles.
Ravaging, sly swaying of ways,
Distributed amongst the populus.
Acclimated to the ritual destruction of all.
Like storms that rage on Venus.
Pounding, grinding, beating,
The most moralistic of features.
Turing stones to sand,
And riling at the highest of altitudes.
Bearing down like heavy soles on helpless ants.
Ruined, torn, beguiled – opinion eradicated.
Talking of savagery,
Talking of pain,
Talking of fairness,
Talking of nationalism…
Doing in self-righteousness;
Interest inherently in the progression of oneself.
So, take me down to the water’s edge,
Towards where the land meets the sea.
And on through the waves, and
Into the depths of the zeitgeist ocean,
Where the anglers lurk, and where there is little light.
Until finally, one is relieved of hope;
I will start this by saying I have very little knowledge of quantum mechanics/physics. Then again, that’s hardly the point of this – I’m no professor. If I were more intelligent in that way, then I’d love to be. It’s just one of those things in life that isn’t going to happen, no matter what. So, if any of you happen to be a physicist, I’m sorry for butchering your religion.
Anyway, I’m getting carried away…
I just finished reading Blake Crouch’s new book ‘Dark Matter.’ I was surprised because it was one of the best books I’ve read in quite a while; and that’s saying something, because whilst there are many books that I like, there are a depressingly small amount that I love. Dark Matter scored itself a place on that pile that’s hardly a pile.
I can’t really describe the plot, how it unfolds, what happens, because that would ruin the surprise for any of you wanting to read it, to unfold the mystery that lingers on every page. But I do want to talk about some of the things it explores, if for no other reason, simply because they greatly interest me.
What is Reality?
I’ve always spent a lot of time wondering what is real, more so as I have gotten older. Maybe it is something that has been sped
Noam Chomsky, Mince Pies, and Anne Frank
“What do you think the meaning of life is?” Emmy asks.
I stare at her, watching the cigarette stuck between her lips slowly burn down as she pondered this herself.
“I haven’t ever given it much thought,” I say.
“Do you not think it is the kind of question that demands significant thought?”
“Maybe so… though, even if we found an answer, do you really think it would make a difference to anything, to our daily lives?”
“I don’t know. Maybe then, all those little problems we have might seem less significant, they might take up less time than they currently do? What do you think?”
“I guess we can never know whichever way?”
“Why’s that?” She asks, taking a long drag on her cigarette.
“Because it would be foolish to think we are going to stumble on the meaning of life anytime soon. We don’t even know what we are looking for, nor what shape of form it comes in. And then, even if we did manage to find something, it would be impossible for all people to agree on that one thing.”
She tilts her head. “I suppose you are right…”
“Maybe it’s not all bad, though.”
“We could attempt to find a… more inclusive meaning, you know, for our own lives?”
“Alright then, what’s your reason, for living?”
I think about this, put on the spot, it is not as easy as it may first seem. “There are many things… you of course,” Emmy glances at me and smiles. “And, there are books, and happiness, love, coffee, mince pies, sex, Noam Chomsky, candles… and I would say death too.”
Emmy grunts, “death?”
“Why not?” I say. “We celebrate living, what about death? Sitting at the end of all things, I suppose it feels mightily lonely.”
She shrugs, and smiles a little more.
“So, how about you?” I ask.
“Well, of course there is you too,” this time I smile. “Beyond that… barbeques maybe, cereal bars, Anne Frank, The Walking Dead. Oh… and of course, the sex.”
“Can’t say it’s a terrible mix,” I laugh.
I head to the fridge, pull out two beers, and hand her one. She stubs out what remains of the cigarette and takes a long swig, inspecting the half-empty bottle afterwards.
“So, what do you want to do tomorrow?” She asks.
“I could make breakfast, then we could go for a stroll, and then the cinema later on?”
She shrugs. “Sure, why not?”
We both empty the beers, sit back, and stare at each other. The only things we feel and know for certain, are the smiles on our faces.
Howling down those ragged streets.
Wind blown from the deepest of depths;
The most savage of lands.
A place no man could ever stand.
And shattered dreams.
Drifting those streets, ravaging.
I think, what is what.
And what is next, when one becomes not.
A place, a sound, a notion?
Life lived in the face of maybe?
And what does that face look like,
When one cannot see?
Sorrow, and contemptuous greed.
A heartbeat in the core of the sea.
Deep, deep, deep down;
The farthest of depths, escaping all sound.
And what is not;
Transformed from what was never.
And what is never, is always not.
Circling above the land of existential thought
Carried with the current of forgiving naught.
The retched ambiguity of suffered sanity.
So, the days are long.
Especially when a day is not,
And a night is certain, long, worn untill the bitter end.
So… some things, they simply never were.