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Wednesday, January 05, 2011

You are what you Decide to be

They were all pigeons. Birds that flocked together, willing to be molded, aching to be taught. Searching for truth, searching for meaning, all too scared to pursue the mysteries of life themselves. It was strange to me the way that they considered it to be holy to bow down and believe in a force that had no mathematical proof. How the whole of generation could sit in this dark tavern and sing choruses of virtue in tribute to nothing but hope. They were the intellectuals, the beggars and the elite. But they were all just helpless pigeons and this empty cathedral was their nesting place. Great wells of fire curled/crawled and purred underneath my eyes. Satanic perhaps, but ever so angry with an astonishing purpose. They were all machines, all hopelessly devoted to being oiled parts of a wheel that would never stop turning. Shaking their palm trees. I was terrified and angry at the revengeful power of Mother Nature. To use her greenery as means of false worshipĂ–. Who were they worshipping if not themselves? They waved their palms. Mine stayed by me. They applauded. I raised my eyebrow. Counterfeited money. Crisp new material. All being folded into tiny crucibles in order to worship their master. I doubt that Nature would ever ask for nickels from her trees. And yet the pigeons paid. They paid for the lamps that lit up their temples. The lights made for knowledge were being used for idle worship. I closed my eyes and breathed in the darkness. They burned and glistened in the betraying light. Words made for sentences were being used for flattery. Flattery that was scorned and ridiculed in our world became accepted among them as long as it was being used for a "holy" purpose. I wanted to laugh out loud but instead I clasped my palms in gratitude that they were mine and I mine alone. They proceeded to be fed. As their ministers would mercilessly devour their hunger before realizing it had been struck with poison. It would kill them. They were not immune, I was, for the crumbs did not touch my lips, just greeted my eyes. My tongue did not make water as theirs did. I swallowed my spit of anger. They spit with words of peace. I was ready to kill the pigeons, then resurrect them as my own. They struck with their gentle thoughts. I grew ill and naseous. But ? Did not spit out my ????. I could not throw out my dismay and it grew in me. Stronger and stronger. Each red day. Every head turned in magnanimous union as the whole moon spoke. Their eyelids closed and opened while mine only fluttered. They were slaves to a master that was keeping them in in destructible chains. Gathering to respect and unleash themselves from the burdens of this supposed world. They were all pigeons. I cried. In this holy tribe I was alone in living on a hilltop with the wolves rather than in a teepee. A teepee cut out of bleeding trees. They who worshipped all of life had the arrogance to chop down Nature's gift to fulfill their superficial and selfish desires. They clawed at my soul as vultures who would never return it. My lips blistered at every word that came out of their song. Horrible entity of time wasted to a mission of absolute hipocracy. Worshipping every human as a whole, I felt separated in my love. Those who I honored, those who I walked with were ignorant to all the greatness of life. These birds built their branches to rest on when all the branches of the world were still unoccupied. The oceans were cleansed and the sands lonely. Then they were in their man-made temples, when the greater asylum of tranquility was lying upon the air of the universe. None looked up, only ahead. I sighed. The fire on the candlesticks stood still. The passionate fire was being murdered by its own hand. They ignored its pain. They blew out its arrogant flames and bowed their heads to the mysterious creature that was unholy in itself. They worshipped the one who worshipped "himself", yet ridiculed the confidant beggars in the street. Their logic amused me, for I watched myself watching them and outside of my head I laughed. The voices while sang in perfect harmony and unison spent time. They could have used it for life. Instead they sang. Their chirping was so beautiful that it caused angry tears to melt upon my face. My skin weeped in the agony of the scene. The beauty and irony of it all. The trained pigeons who fly, but always must come back to where they came from. Their wings clipped at their (the) ends just enough to make practice that they were well. My skin ripped and as I never glanced at the blood I did not bleed. They would have. The chained pigeons. My pigeons. They clasped their hands again. The mantises of Nature always did this ritual before killing their enemy. I was their enemy. I was their friend. I was stabbed but not dead. Not knowing which was ? I kept silent and pinched my body to know it was mine. It was. They flew away and departed in happy praise. I was mournful through the night. Who were they worshipping? Who were they killing? I arrived at the conclusion that they had no idea how fooled they were. I hated church.

I had created a complete world of morons that ironically I happened to love. On a daily basis they ignored or adored me, having absolutely no grasp of everything that they blindly believed in. And I am everything. The worst part is that I have to constantly remain an illusion, because they would never believe that what they knew to be the infinite truth was merely a very elaborate lie.

You've seen me before. Forget the fact that I may have used incorrect grammar or smiled when the occasion called for a frown. You have seen me. And right now I know every thought erupting in your mind. Perhaps you are a critic, analyzing every piece of alphabet that I use so you can conjure up your own american soup. Before you proceed with ideas, I shall inform you that your pitiful attempts at decoding will not earn you fame or retribution. What I am writing is the truth. It is up to you to decide whether it is your truth as well. But remember that no matter how elementary my concepts may be, or how famililliar the "story" sounds, at the end of the day you will know that I can still reach you in dreams.

I was not always so hostile. In fact human beings are not born knowing how to hate.

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