Grazing On The Fields of Play

Boundaries by their very nature require limitation and lack. Of necessity action dictates movement across the plains and fields of time. From one square to another the mobility of noble kings and queens stake and lay claim to territory already understood as conquered. Upon the subjects of duty forward movement hangs. In this weakest link the vampire requires a constant ebb and flow of new blood, of new energy to dwell upon. All across the fields of play cows graze to their heart's content - and it is to this appearance that life unfolds - for what else is it for?

There are no winners and there is no such thing as losing. In the dance of freedom the spirit soars and finds no recompense among the living. Culling the herd only leaves another scar upon our weary face to which all who gaze upon the countenance of despair tremble in fright in the hopes that they may be spared such avenues of adventure. There is nothing that one may not do and while the universe pauses in patient submission for it's next command do we not fill it's empty cup? Do we not provide where lack rains upon the plains?

In feeding the hungry we provide the stage for our own plight - whether in shadow or light. Decision-making is not a way of life but merely a tool in the trade of fright. Screaming in anguish our echoes reverberate across the universe. Do you not hear your own movement?

New blood requires the dispensing and emptying of the old but what one will not hear of in the tabloids of old is that blood is blood whether thought of as 'old' or as 'new'. Fattening the cow for slaughter we feast upon our own flesh - and pay the price of neglecting our own nature. When thinking becomes reality it is us for whom the bell tolls. When turning off the television set changes nothing then nothing has changed. It is not the nature of Man to endure it's own nature as there is no such thing as pre-destination but there is such a thing as the illusion of separation - it is called beingness and through this medium of expression all that which takes place, takes place. Can the Creator be far behind?

Sparks fly At The Pond... of Life.

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