Wednesday, December 27, 2006

Salvation Through the River Styx

The key to reaching answers to life's enigmas often lies in Perspective.

Unfortunately, Perspective is earned through suffering, or at least wading through adversity. And therein lies the subtle tragedy of the play we're all forced to perform. For if ascribing reason to the Universe's questions is the path to happiness, its pursuit requires us to unlock the box handed down from the heavens. As with the Tree of Life to our primordial ancestors, we are inexorably drawn to poke at the beast; for its the pain from long-healed scars that reminds us that we are human; of the world we could be in, but are not. Without pain, there can be no relief; light without darkness; hope without despair.

The best actors refuse to admit that there even is a play. Idyllic fantasies of endless feasts without something having to give up its life to cater to the whims of an insatiable mob. Life is the serendipitous byproduct of an orb that inherently involves destruction.

It is a shame that the very path to Perspective often leads to a complete loss of faith, be it in humanity, 'the system' or whoever we see fit to lay blame for our own deficiencies in perseverance. It may be an evolutionary survival-skill for the psyche to dwell in our pasts which invariably seems to only consist of snippets of a black history, but the moment it blinds us to what 'is', we are lost in a bottomless spiral of self-destructive patterns.

Open your eyes. Look through the insurmountable decay to the saplings which spring from it.

Saturday, November 25, 2006

"Gimli is not a dwarf, he's a little person."


In a surgically sterile world of euphemisms and political correctness, the people have grown content in their barcaloungers, seated on denial of the substandard. Unpleasantness has no place in a room filled with politician-smiles and corset-clad women.

Work-in-progress.

Friday, November 17, 2006

The Cynic's Scythe



or all of you in your euphoric bubbles, your picture-postcard lives; rejoice in your lack of omniscience for the cut will be swift and painless.

Without prejudice, without malice; the reaper strikes. As wrong, as evil as the typhoon which rips the pram from Mother's hands. It's just reality, the weight of circumstance we're all asked to bear. And those who see it not shall be blessed.

The remaining live not in fear, for that is reserved for the unknown. Dwindling numbers are bolstered by faith in empty maxims that knowledge is power. Does power corrupt in damnation?

As the scales tip, the templars; defenders of humanity's innocence; are once again betrayed and looked upon with contempt. The very pedestrians they were sworn to protect turned their backs on them. For acknowledgment of the knights' existence is a sore reminder of the reality they've shunned.

Now all live in fear of the Cynic's Scythe.