There was a time when thought was the commodity of life. Everyplace where one looked, it was to be found, and if not present in perception, then certainly created in imagination. A commodity is like that. If one doesn't have it, it gets created very, very fast. One way, or another, possession takes hold and when it does we find ourselves wisked off into new found unimaginable worlds of wonder and glory. And that is what it is all about. Glory.
Wonders for the mind nourish and sustain us, or so we firmly believe never daring to 'think' otherwise. Alone with our thoughts, no one ever enters the abyss of destruction for nothing else lives beyond what we believe 'to be'. Sustenance can only come from the projections we so daringly obfuscate ever so carefully, cloaked in dress of created ignorance much in the same way that the creation forms itself out of the abyss we call home. Surviving is not an option.
Breathlessly, we await ourselves, ever eager to parlay our winnings into something grand and glorious, beyond our conception of elation. The urges from within prevent us from exposing ourselves and yet, we lay bare before all, hiding nothing. We are everything we seem to be and beyond these imaginary boundaries lies the 'real' self. It is called by whatever we choose, it becomes familiar with who and what it so chooses, seemingly beyond our control, grasp or even understanding. Alone we have brought ourselves into existence, alone will the end come to greet us one day as we rise to some new and far greater challenge in which we have placed the entirety of our trust and hopes. Laughingly, we beseech the almighty for release and as the shallow echo returns the answer we speak, we cry in ecstasy knowing that knowledge is what limits us and is the rope in which we have bound our freedoms.
There is nothing else which matters, nothing else which deserves the recognition which we have bestowed upon ourselves. This is all that is and nothing more. Could this be the final chapter in the 'who done it' mystery novel?
The finality we await has come and gone leaving footprints into which we place our full attention. Finding that road back we spring forth in renewed vigor, young at heart, old in knowledge. Evermore cries the wildebeest in it's last desperate struggle against all odds. Release me and the gift of the Gods will be laid bare at your feet. In your quest for victory of the ever higher realms, have you ever taken the time to look down?