map of the immortals
WHY DOES THIS SICKNESS PERVADE YOUR MIND?
You as a child were cut from the crystal of perfection, can you not see that fear, want and suffering is learned from a thousand trials flowing from the pen of your jailor?
A searchlight scans the seas for life, while you play at greatness in an orchestra performing on a ship lost at sea. But this was never your ship. You aren’t a guest and you don’t have a ticket. Drop the violin and dive into the murky black depths, this is what life is for, powering mightily against the current while krakens of conformity feel through the darkness at your kicking feet.
This dangerous, kinetic reality is infinitely more desirable than a splintering voyage performing for a crowd of disinterested strangers.
AND IF PERFECTION IS YOUR DESIGN
Why ply your temple with snake-oil serums, or slick the fur of the beast of industry with your golden life essence? Only while rushing can a river ward off putrefaction. Mosquitos seek stagnation, but the dead pool does not create them. And parasitical thoughts grow from the stagnation of indecision.
If cancer is the language of acid, do not provide an arena for its deadly performance. Return your body to the garden. Give back what was lost.
Don’t mistake a weed for a beanstalk, or build your castles on the turrets of ruins. It is on the FOUNDATION where you must toil, everything else is fragile artifice.
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AND WHY PUNISH THE BABE IN YOUR SOUL
over and over, with the lashing whips of self-doubt? Your soul is an infinite foundry of lights, not a straw hut ravaged by winds, withering in obscurity, scattering it’s structure across the beach of the cemetery.
Glaciers of thought melt unnoticed in the ocean of routine.
The diagram of your spirit is in 5 densities, and the speed of light is slow-motion to the communication of entangled particles. And we are ALL entangled my friend. Beauty is instantaneous, and there ARE NO STOPLIGHTS in the realm of the infinite.
Heed well these last three lines,
Grass doesn’t strain to grow,
birds didn’t invent flight,
and the Sun doesn’t need a light switch.
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From The Opulence Of Invention. Copyright © 2018 E. P. Mattson, All Rights Reserved.
