Our
senses are collaborators in our crime of experience. Recognition,
by its gestures, is our admittance of guilt. What
we put to memory is reinforcement within our consciousness, in our migration
away from our essence of being. By the time our consciousness comes to words, we
are committed to meaning as if it were tattoos of the damned, walking in a
experiential death march on the dusty unpaved yet intimate road of time. Our
creativity within these confines that lead to manifestation as its end product, is
soulless. Most of our lives is a dumb-down entrainment
away
from the oneness and into the myopia of small minded diversity as our identity.
Forsaking the known, not for its knowledge but for its method of identification
of the self and its propensity for carriage as a personal code held within, risks
the possibility of a connectivity to soul that does not respond to our version
of inquiry nor does it answer in parallel to any of our accepted interpretative
means. And so it goes . . . I don’t know you, ever, no matter what, but I am
one with you beyond proof or determination as
a conviction of self. I, rather we, cannot simply go on dying in such an
elaborate pretend, so separate like this . . .
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