In awe, as a writer, poet, thinker, depth diver…I wonder…
‘How did we get here?’
Some of us so far in the minority. It takes a ladder to stand up to the wind. Faith and persistence must not wane. For as certain as, one open door appears ahead of us. The door shutting behind…never closes completely.
Life is tragic simply because the earth turns and the sun inexorably rises and sets, and one day, for each of us, the sun will go down for the last, last time. Perhaps the whole root of our trouble, the human trouble, is that we will sacrifice all the beauty of our lives, will imprison ourselves in totems, taboos, crosses, blood sacrifices, steeples, mosques, races, armies, flags, nations, in order to deny the fact of death, the only fact we have. It seems to me that one ought to rejoice in the fact of death–ought to decide, indeed, to earn one’s death by confronting with passion the conundrum of life. One is responsible for life: It is the small beacon in that terrifying darkness from which we come and to which we shall return.
Our thoughts are being pilfered everyday. To think otherwise? Would be unwise. We must educate in a free society. Mind washing from the church pews to the loosely termed ‘news’. Is nothing more than slight and vague attempts at changing who we are…who we want to be. As an existentialist would say, veiled jabs, daily, by ‘society’ are chipping away at the point of just…being.
This is where true art. True poetry. True and honest, expression of what many wish to suppress, should dictate ‘how we live with ourselves.’
The artist is the opposite of the politically-minded individual, the opposite of the reformer, the opposite of the idealist. The artist does not tinker with the universe: he or she recreates it out of his or her own experience and understanding of life. They know that a transformation must proceed from within…outward, vice versa. The world problem becomes the problem of the SELF.