SOC Writing _ 17.3.21

Cross bleed

Here I am bleeding to death upon your cross of fools. Your fools day – the day he came, went, betrayed me after the cock crowed three times. Alone in life as in death – his something left hanging as he asphyxiated alone on the skull hill. This millennium goal of feasting upon God – gods – this ever-present symbol to remind us how fleeting a grasp we have upon existence. As we wrestle with our own insignificance we turn to the big deities – to those things below the stars - but above the earth – we divine – try to make sense in a nonsensical universe our frontal lobes tell us should be more like our minds – mind you – we don’t even understand our small grey matter. Nothing matters ever if it could – it is all over in an instant. I for one – paddle out to the sunrise and watch upon the waters – pink and orange, apricot floating upon a glimmering surface – watch shags lumber together over the waves – one flap to right themselves, then another – really ungraceful compared to the gulls and terns. I have got this wary feeling that all these moments of time are concertinaing into each other – that we are flat packing the moments so they are all together. We carry time like a briefcase under our shoulders and then at once it all falls apart – a mess of papers on the pavement – all a fluster – joy of joys letting it all blow away – the secret formulas – the ministries macro and micro financial methods all going out to harbour for the plankton to settle. These are days of absolute annihilation – of a getting to the grist of our souls – for self knowing – not filling our heads with the outside – but inside – what are you feeling in your one and only body now? Where can you travel if you begin in there and stretch out your arms and say freedom begins at home? You have begun and finding your way will take human years – a flashpoint of heart and light and the stars take over from your small impulse – a greater you seated in all places is coming home to roost.