Somewhere Above the Gray Skies

Gray Skies

The sun moves around the planet and the planet crawls with life. From the flying eagles of bravery in the sky to the microbes of oblivion at the ocean floor, debt is owed to the sun. In this capacity I have thoughts about the way nature behaves, thoughts about its treachery, thoughts about superiority versus inferiority. How does dignity arise from the shrewdness that is natural born life? I know that children grow to experience the change that separates one frame of mind from the other, one time of life to the next, but where do the functions come from that incite this metamorphosis? Random chance, that’s where.

I remember a time when the cold wind blew through the passenger side of an old Japanese sports car, where the hour was late and I was but a young man, barely fifteen years of age. The questionable man driving told me he wouldn’t stop, that he’d take me deep into the woods, and I felt the essence of nature, because I felt fear. See, the same way time knows no boundaries, only variation, so nature knows no rules as to the essence of ideas. Within the uncharted spaces of this speculation the psychopath is born, and nature takes it course.

A penny for your thoughts, a flower for your prayers.

Before long I found myself meandering down the street in the middle of night, the houses I passed dark with only a porch light on here and there. Why was I alone? I went to a park where I lay in the grass so that the stars unfolded before me, and the sound of cars and motorcycles on the street drifted into my ears from the variations in distance. I couldn’t think of anything because I was incapable of thinking; this kind of activity required friends, which was a problem, because people avoided me. I avoided them. I don’t believe I understood the nature of this two-way street, but I do understand how the pathology began to grow within.

The myriad reasons are pointless to list, to discuss, to analyze, to ponder. Why bother when it’s the future that has to be considered? A vast open space lay before me, ominous, the people in chains to my sides as I go, the heads as they rot high on stakes. My sword is unsheathed; life is in me; I seek to thrive in spite of my weakness, for it is such weakness that the world at large seeks to exploit. I have people who want to see me fail, and to them I say that I refuse to fail. A sign will be raised in my name for I will triumph – I will be king. Gold will fill my coffers and women shall dance at my banquets, for my time has come, and my success shall be praised and celebrated.

Overtures in their vibrant colors mesmerize my soul, where the light beams like the bright whites of a dream when they say they’ve died and have come back to life. I can know this. I can be this. And if a mountain lion strikes a fawn in the mist of an early morning, the blood spilled is merely the paint applied by the being who sits on high. A decorative streak, an ornamental stroke, what are they but proofs of a personality whose desires concern the spaces of selfish inner passions? Can the lonely man know? Can a child have candy? What would the world be without the spectacle of nature and its impeccable ways? Herein lay the genius of it all, a universe and its magic paying dues to the minds who don’t even need to know. A heart frozen in ice is much better than a million days of unknowing.

Cankerous mounds upon a fleshly delight, what decadent acts have spawned your growths? The wants and needs of the young, so full of folly, they play with the mind as they do the body, in ways that can often signal the onset of a realization, that noteworthy moment when it’s decided: something profound is amiss. And the choirs sing in their majestic halls, guided by a swaying hand to the hopefuls gliding high among the lofty clouds. Will the child be snug tonight? Will he have a mother’s love come the day following? The life following? Or will the crows of hate soar where the child walks, barking their mad expressions so that a curse grows bonded to the spirit with so many years to see ahead, the winters cold, the summers scorching hot. How do the fates play their game, the cards spread out on the table, their cigars like the valium of a doctor’s medicine chest?

What could the actors of the stage think of their performance, the deep philosophical questions? Is that where the magic generated, from this hypothetical thought, the players engaged in that art so adored by the many, their opinions standing for something rather than nothing? But didn’t a great man meet with his assassination? And didn’t a snake crawl under a rock? But for the desperation of the young girl wondering about life as she strolled home, paying no heed to the vans which slowed their pace, we wouldn’t have capitalism thriving as it does. It’s the monsters who have it differently, no matter the liberal agenda. Once a thing becomes accepted, a replacement is soon to materialize; a new monster awaits every generation. Your views, though, what do they mean to the woman blind, her hands reaching for the money she needs so badly? How can you live with yourself, taking it from her?

And the cats bounce and the dogs wag their tails, the children playing, the garden neglected because a parent doesn’t have the time to garden. When the criminal arrives, the delicate balance unfolds between those who understand, and must therefore appease, and the innocent lives who think all people can be trusted. Rob them of their food and find, no one can be trusted. It’s like an experiment gone wrong, where the results expose the cruelty and the hatred, where the behavior reveals the lies and the deceit. What would it take to love each other today?

And now it’s time for a poem: Blue skies over a blue city, through the lens of a bruised, blue heart. I saw you walk away, wondering why; I saw you never again, beneath a blue sky.

Where is the descriptive power that guides us along, so that the world doesn’t grow tedious with monotony? One of these days I will tell her I love her, I just hope I don’t hurt her in the process.

But what is pain? Does a human being thrive on the attempt to avoid pain, or is there mercy in the suffering? I climbed mountains in pain, seeking pain, and pain I found. I endured so much pain that I became the pain person. I became the Emperor of Pain.

And when the tumble weeds blew through the streets of my life, I saw the rain clouds gather. And when the rain came, I saw the haze form in my eyes. And when I cleared them I saw the running water form streams which filled the gutters. And when I saw the trash gathered with the leaves, I realized, my time on earth had been wasted, that I was nothing other than the pale shadow of a lost dream, the fleeting hope of ambition long lost. Where were the angels then? Why did the higher gods look down and decide punishment? How was it justified that an unborn and guiltless child should go through the trials of undeserved torture?

Then the bell rang and a choir sang. The long robes entered the room and spells were spoken, the emblem up high on the wall, shifting in a mirage of colors and shapes, much as a slow spider crawls until the beholder understands, the presence of life and death is near. Down came the vampires to drink, their eyes piercing with hate, their fangs polished razor sharp for killing, for feeding. When the lone robe wandered through the field of bodies, as seen from a point in the mountains, there fell on the air a cry for the loss of a child. How do they wonder, the souls in bereavement, love lost to the greed of evil?

I went for a ride to learn the truth of the situation pertaining to a lost boy, and was met with only a mystery. A woman had come from the east with a host of others, and together they explained how a claim had been made as to the custody of the child. I demanded to know who had made the claim, only to be told that I would have to travel to where the emerald star gleams at its highest, and there I would have to await the gift of the seven servants. Here I would take the gift provided that I honor the required disposition of heart, and I would take the gift to where the ice encases the petals of the white rose. The answer would come to me on this day.

What is the moment when you clutch at your innards, the terror of reality gripping you with the kind of fear that puts the bravest to shame? The bold eye sockets stand out, the wrinkles cry, the pores gape their blackening secrets, and the wine bottle that fills is all but emptied, towering on the living room table as a lone building stands, ready for demolition. Were you good enough? Were you honest? Will your judgment go harshly, like pulling the fingers back on a blade of grass fresh from the ground, where the blood drips and the pang of pain fires from the well of despair? Deep down the abyss knows you, taunts you, awaits you, awaits the mighty fall, knowing how you think you’ll be alone only to find, you fall amongst a host of others. Everyone will cry but no one will mourn, because the sun shines like a sour morning, filled with the hurt and anger of a truth spoken to the rigors of a murky afternoon.

And a comet soars somewhere above the gray skies.

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