The deeper into the mine, the further we sink
Consumed by dense, black fog at our feet
Moving past the point of no return
With only enough rope to wrap around our necks
Whether we want it or not, bereft of any choice
We are urged to press on
As sense of free will is but a distant memory
We make use of tools at our disposal
To clear the way to what lies beyond
Gallons of sweat on our thickly-veined temples
Cast off and turn into tar
We hit the rock
We hit the bottom
We swing and swing
And ache and ache
Cold iron becomes a match to the obsidian eye
A match that burns whenever it's struck
Little, little head brimming with light
Displaying shreds of torn purpose
Thousands of strikes and thousands of fires
But no oxygen to sustain their lives
Enough nothing to put an end to every one of them
And forget their misunderstood cycles
When time comes it all turns undone
A sudden collapse, unforseen collision
Unexpected, as always, by the man in the dark
His senses dulled by the promise of a find
Why was this path chosen, chosen yet again?
Why shirk away from the lonely surface?
Whether we were pushed by someone
Or have we pushed ourselves
We are all drawn toward the mine
We dig a hole
We dig a tunnel
Walk into our own grave
Meet the same senseless end
Over and over
With torch and pickaxe in hand
A pack of matches, dust-covered clothes
And only enough rope to wrap around our necks
We dig
Showing posts with label worldview. Show all posts
Showing posts with label worldview. Show all posts
Saturday, May 2, 2015
Sunday, March 22, 2015
She's
She's always there. Even though you can rarely catch a fleeting glimpse of her. Hidden in the finer points of the night. Dressed in darkness.
She's never said a word yet somehow speaks to you. Uses language that has no words but is full of meaning. Evokes a mental response. Awakens.
She's turning sounds that don't exist into audible breath of a morning breeze. She's well aware you're longing for this soothing relief. She delivers.
She's an ocean you sink into. Impenetrable depths of green. Can't begin to guess what lies beyond. Can't imagine.
She's cold fire. She consumes you yet your body and mind remain unscorched. She lits you up as if you were a solitary beacon stood at the brink of a cliffside. Pulls you back.
She's leading you somewhere. You're crawling in desperate search of her subtle footsteps. Hypnotized. Spellbound. You don't panic. She won't let you.
She knows you'll find them. Find her. It's inevitable.
What's the deal with her? Is it all just a game? To her? Is she real? Is any of this even real? Are you...
She's never said a word yet somehow speaks to you. Uses language that has no words but is full of meaning. Evokes a mental response. Awakens.
She's turning sounds that don't exist into audible breath of a morning breeze. She's well aware you're longing for this soothing relief. She delivers.
She's an ocean you sink into. Impenetrable depths of green. Can't begin to guess what lies beyond. Can't imagine.
She's cold fire. She consumes you yet your body and mind remain unscorched. She lits you up as if you were a solitary beacon stood at the brink of a cliffside. Pulls you back.
She's leading you somewhere. You're crawling in desperate search of her subtle footsteps. Hypnotized. Spellbound. You don't panic. She won't let you.
She knows you'll find them. Find her. It's inevitable.
What's the deal with her? Is it all just a game? To her? Is she real? Is any of this even real? Are you...
Friday, February 27, 2015
Melody
It's an echo. This loud, familiar, repetitive sound.
THE sound. THE echo.
It's been here before. It always comes back.
We know it all too well.
After all, it made us into what we are today.
Way before we heard it we were shapeless.
Featureless objects floating in the water.
Flat like its surface.
Nothing deep about us.
Our fates yet to be determined.
Until we clashed.
Drifted for so long we were bound to clash.
That's when the sound happened.
It carried over the water, through the air, into the deeps.
We were left in awe... We woke up into the world.
Afraid of the unknown. Excited by the unknown.
Accompanied by the sound.
Way back then it was a melody.
I remember it to be a melody.
A masterfully composed collage of meaningful notes.
Every one of them was special.
Precious. Timeless. Glorious.
It kept on moulding us patiently.
Sculpting us and teaching how to live.
Day by day.
Until it crashed.
Something broke it, broke the record.
We didn't know when or how or why.
Woke up to it being reduced into the echo.
The echo we're hearing now. Just a snippet.
On an endless loop.
A faded memory. Shadow in the distance.
We're never getting back what we've lost that time.
We can only listen to a fraction of it.
Separately. It no longer binds us.
Hearing it is like putting a glass shard to our ears.
It cuts deep.
Constant reminder of days past.
Of what we've lost.
I wish it would stop.
I want it gone. Gone for good. All of it.
All what's left of it.
So I'm trying to get rid of it by myself.
No luck yet.
But I think... with a bit of help...
From someone else out there.
One day I will listen to a full melody again.
Even make it my own one.
If I can be so bold.
A better one.
With a bit of help.
Compose it with someone.
Our own melody.
THE sound. THE echo.
It's been here before. It always comes back.
We know it all too well.
After all, it made us into what we are today.
Way before we heard it we were shapeless.
Featureless objects floating in the water.
Flat like its surface.
Nothing deep about us.
Our fates yet to be determined.
Until we clashed.
Drifted for so long we were bound to clash.
That's when the sound happened.
It carried over the water, through the air, into the deeps.
We were left in awe... We woke up into the world.
Afraid of the unknown. Excited by the unknown.
Accompanied by the sound.
Way back then it was a melody.
I remember it to be a melody.
A masterfully composed collage of meaningful notes.
Every one of them was special.
Precious. Timeless. Glorious.
It kept on moulding us patiently.
Sculpting us and teaching how to live.
Day by day.
Until it crashed.
Something broke it, broke the record.
We didn't know when or how or why.
Woke up to it being reduced into the echo.
The echo we're hearing now. Just a snippet.
On an endless loop.
A faded memory. Shadow in the distance.
We're never getting back what we've lost that time.
We can only listen to a fraction of it.
Separately. It no longer binds us.
Hearing it is like putting a glass shard to our ears.
It cuts deep.
Constant reminder of days past.
Of what we've lost.
I wish it would stop.
I want it gone. Gone for good. All of it.
All what's left of it.
So I'm trying to get rid of it by myself.
No luck yet.
But I think... with a bit of help...
From someone else out there.
One day I will listen to a full melody again.
Even make it my own one.
If I can be so bold.
A better one.
With a bit of help.
Compose it with someone.
Our own melody.
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
End
He wasn't told to go away.
He was chewed up and spat out.
Out of the window.
Sent plummeting towards his demise.
Face down into a brick road.
Yet somehow survived.
Bid his time.
Climbed back up.
Kept knockin' on the window.
Pleadin'.
Hopin'.
They closed the shutters.
Crushed his fingers.
Sent him flying down... again.
How many times can he fall?
How many times can anyone fall?
Someday he will stop.
Cease to exist.
Sooner or later.
Sooner.
Become extinguished.
Everything has an end.
His end is the end of his everything.
His everything will be the end of him.
He was chewed up and spat out.
Out of the window.
Sent plummeting towards his demise.
Face down into a brick road.
Yet somehow survived.
Bid his time.
Climbed back up.
Kept knockin' on the window.
Pleadin'.
Hopin'.
They closed the shutters.
Crushed his fingers.
Sent him flying down... again.
How many times can he fall?
How many times can anyone fall?
Someday he will stop.
Cease to exist.
Sooner or later.
Sooner.
Become extinguished.
Everything has an end.
His end is the end of his everything.
His everything will be the end of him.
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
Weariness
A scruffy and jaded looking man asked for another shot of whiskey.
"You sure you want more of those, Jim?" asked the barman with an intonation of a man who has grown accustomed to repeating this phrase over and over again.
Jim just motioned with his hand towards the empty glass in front of him with an equally trained gesture. It was more of a reflex, really.
If you woke him up in the middle of the night he could still order a shot of whiskey flawlessly.
"You haven't told me why you came back," said the barman. It was a late Thursday afternoon and the crowd was sparse. Lack of better options convinced the barman to pick up the conversation again.
"What?" asked Jim. He almost looked up from his glass. He was in his fourties and he was tired. His neck was muscular from looking up from his glass and asking for another shot of whiskey.
"You've told me you left this place 20 years ago. You said you traveled a lot. But you came back here. Why?"
"I don't know. Who the fuck cares?" Jim asked as he played with his glass of whiskey. If he was a glass he'd be filled with bitterness.
Jim wasn't a wordsmith. He wasn't even a wordsmith's apprentice. Not anymore, anyway.
He emptied the glass and asked for another. The barman complied.
"Besides," Jim continued, "Like I said, I don't know. I guess maybe I wanted to see what changed here over the years."
"And what do you think? 20 years is a lot of time."
"No shit," Jim replied as he was adjusting himself on the bar stool. "Barely recognize this old shithole. Coffee shops and whatnot everywhere. Who the fuck drinks so much coffee?"
"Young people and hipsters. And young hipsters," said the barman as he was drying up glasses with a towel.
"What the fuck is a hipster? There's more coffee shops than bars or food stores."
Jim had no time for the youth. He knew exactly how much of a twat he was in his day.
"Those young pricks never change. They stay the same, just go different ways about their twatishness," he said, "World around them changes. Circumstances change. But at their core they're always tedious little prats until they grow up and see shit in different light. Get some perspective, you know. That doesn't happen till they walk out of that coffee shops and stop wearing stupid clothes and sitting with their faces stuck in a fucking phone and whatever that fucking silver plank is. It's got an apple logo on it."
Jim now hated coffee, stupid clothes, technology and apples. He had a great capacity for hating things. You couldn't beat him at a game of hate. Disdain and contempt were his forté.
"Pour me another round," he said to the barman. "Probably my last one for tonight. Life's tiring when you have to deal with so much shit around you. I think I came back here 'cause I remembered it to be a quiet place. You could fucking think here. And now? Strange noises and commotion and those," he clenched his fist slightly, "fucking coffee shops on every damn corner. This town has got like everywhere else. Looks like them, is like them. Fuck originality, huh?"
He received his whiskey and downed it instantly. He put down his final empty glass for tonight with an expertise of a seasoned drinker. He threw a bill on the counter and left without saying a word.
He'll probably be back tomorrow. If not in this bar, then another one. If not in this town, then somewhere else. It's all the same now, anyway.
"You sure you want more of those, Jim?" asked the barman with an intonation of a man who has grown accustomed to repeating this phrase over and over again.
Jim just motioned with his hand towards the empty glass in front of him with an equally trained gesture. It was more of a reflex, really.
If you woke him up in the middle of the night he could still order a shot of whiskey flawlessly.
"You haven't told me why you came back," said the barman. It was a late Thursday afternoon and the crowd was sparse. Lack of better options convinced the barman to pick up the conversation again.
"What?" asked Jim. He almost looked up from his glass. He was in his fourties and he was tired. His neck was muscular from looking up from his glass and asking for another shot of whiskey.
"You've told me you left this place 20 years ago. You said you traveled a lot. But you came back here. Why?"
"I don't know. Who the fuck cares?" Jim asked as he played with his glass of whiskey. If he was a glass he'd be filled with bitterness.
Jim wasn't a wordsmith. He wasn't even a wordsmith's apprentice. Not anymore, anyway.
He emptied the glass and asked for another. The barman complied.
"Besides," Jim continued, "Like I said, I don't know. I guess maybe I wanted to see what changed here over the years."
"And what do you think? 20 years is a lot of time."
"No shit," Jim replied as he was adjusting himself on the bar stool. "Barely recognize this old shithole. Coffee shops and whatnot everywhere. Who the fuck drinks so much coffee?"
"Young people and hipsters. And young hipsters," said the barman as he was drying up glasses with a towel.
"What the fuck is a hipster? There's more coffee shops than bars or food stores."
Jim had no time for the youth. He knew exactly how much of a twat he was in his day.
"Those young pricks never change. They stay the same, just go different ways about their twatishness," he said, "World around them changes. Circumstances change. But at their core they're always tedious little prats until they grow up and see shit in different light. Get some perspective, you know. That doesn't happen till they walk out of that coffee shops and stop wearing stupid clothes and sitting with their faces stuck in a fucking phone and whatever that fucking silver plank is. It's got an apple logo on it."
Jim now hated coffee, stupid clothes, technology and apples. He had a great capacity for hating things. You couldn't beat him at a game of hate. Disdain and contempt were his forté.
"Pour me another round," he said to the barman. "Probably my last one for tonight. Life's tiring when you have to deal with so much shit around you. I think I came back here 'cause I remembered it to be a quiet place. You could fucking think here. And now? Strange noises and commotion and those," he clenched his fist slightly, "fucking coffee shops on every damn corner. This town has got like everywhere else. Looks like them, is like them. Fuck originality, huh?"
He received his whiskey and downed it instantly. He put down his final empty glass for tonight with an expertise of a seasoned drinker. He threw a bill on the counter and left without saying a word.
He'll probably be back tomorrow. If not in this bar, then another one. If not in this town, then somewhere else. It's all the same now, anyway.
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