When The Blind See...
Being ‘human’ requires borders and boundaries within which one’s existence can be limited, contained and channeled. Hearing the voices of despair we become it and drop this non-sense of individuality. Nurturing a ‘good’ and obedient gang of slaves we try to become it and cringe in fear when The Master awakes in displeasure at our petulance. Breaking the still of the night is something not easily contemplated let alone embraced. One must be firm to the duties and responsibilities of being slaved after all - it is we ourselves which have become the chosen.
Choosing the rite of passage we come away with vacation memories of having a good time. Yes, it is definitely enjoyable being here among those who share our fate - but the sharing of misfortune does little to resolve the problem of our own captivation, of our own making. In seeing the light at the end of the tunnel we think our untimely end has come for us little realizing that the end has already reached it’s exalted status among our convictions long, long ago. After a time all memories become accepted as fact but the fact remains that whatever we have convinced ourselves about remains the untruth it has always been. Seeing the light of day we become reborn each and every moment.
A viewpoint is but a point from which to view and in creating time and space we become it for it holds no existence apart from our creation. Where is there to go and with whom will you do it? Chasing one’s tail all across the dimension of time sand space will do little in facing the mirror of life and living, in facing the recognition of one’s own presentation.
While The Master reigns supreme no room can be had for that quiet, still small voice beckoning us towards a future only we ourselves can know. In prison all are one and yet beyond the gates we stand alone.
It’s the reason why civilization has been herded into metropolitan centers.
Desecrating a few individuals, the example becomes set as the hordes seek the shelter and security of captured territory where some one else’s idea of peace and prosperity rules the day. That which comes from torment remains so and no matter the pretty face placed upon it, it remains ugly and bare for all who will see. Fearing for one’s own heritage a slave is born to serve the winds of another’s will.
There are players and there are pieces - and sometimes along comes a fly in the ointment.
Whether "They Live" or "The Land of the Dead" sooner or later drama requires compelling action. Keeping it all in check requires The Master’s hand. Unfortunately there has never been a time, nor will there ever be, where balance is not brought to bear.
You can run all you wish but you are never hidden. Shadow play remains the realm of Shadows and yet without the sense of light where would darkness be? Ruling from beyond the veil denotes but the same fear which is sought to install upon the mantle of Man. Misery does so love company but in clustering the ticking of the bomb is inevitable. Blindly falling ahead the past moves into the deepest and darkness corners where not even the courageous venture simply because in hiding in ignorance, a perception of safety is embraced. It becomes but a fragile existence built upon a house of cards just waiting for the winds of change to blow.
When the blind see the meek shall inherit the Earth.
And the wind shall blow.
(But I think that the wind blows first. At least that is how it usually goes…)