It Is Satisfactory to Speak Thusly

It is alright, little ones.

The moment of fear may yet come, but we are no longer bound by its inarticulate jargon and hapless phrasing. We know that we are becoming something. There is a definite path we are treading, though its course strays into that which is infinite and never ending. In many years we will surely be somewhere, so we need not collapse and point out the aimlessness of it all. Old pipes will carry the raw sewage out to sea (and to see), and there we will stand, at the end of one chosen course, and yet how much wiser do our yearnings become, to continue to awaken nostalgia and the need for a space of peace.

Already the wheels have turned, and thrust us into the day. We stand alert to some task, and giggle helplessly at some mad magician.

The odds are that we will make it. The odds are that we shall wiggle free from all binding and gesture forth with the truth of who we are.

One and one and one and one. Times fifty billion are the perspectives floating about. We shall take many. The one with faint blinders are worn as we speak from a stance beyond reproach, another pair dials in with hypersensitivity, which are worn with compulsion.

The key lies beyond the echoes of deep chamber hallways. Find it beyond each step, each breath, each malformed half-thought. It is in the perfection of an impulse. A very particular impulse; one which has the power to breach time and space and signal the unison marching continuously, stridently on.

It is more than sublime. It creates a preoccupation with itself and its beauty. It is not one bit selfish or musty, crusty or burnt with disgust. It is a culminating thing within us. It is a carrying on, it is a moving through. It is a profound development, and it is a playful curse. It cannot be spoken of in exactness. Its language is both laughter and tears, and it seeks an equal portion of each.

It is the balance which offers tranquility.

Away with wounded flesh! For it knows not even how to sew itself up. It would beseech you, as it scrambles through shallow, crystal clear water on its scabby hands and aching knees, that it has lost the tools for joymaking. It would allow all its intestines and bowels and insides to slide through the tiniest incision in the skin. All to the purpose of admitting weakness to facilitate the collection of sympathy. A being never needs be pitiful.

I insist on the quitting of the accumulation of pain.