I whisper to the God of fulfillment. The parody of a prayer.
In my heart, I want to mock at him and tell him how parochial his view of life
is. The living is corrupt and derives no pleasure whatsoever. The dead is
wrapped in the smug cigarette packs. The question and the God of fulfillment
hang as they were since the beginning of existence- in the Garden of Eden or in
the shell of an atom which blew apart and divided life or maybe between the
legs of the cat vaulting, sneaking around the corner and cheating many men. The
future is unresponsive as well.
I have not attained any elixir of satisfaction, so have not
my enemies all around the world. This world, this tiny piece of screw has been
moving harmonically in the wake of a day when the living can die in peace and
the dead can sleep in calm. But inside even the Gods are hollow, the living is
mere living. The divine are boneless cavities written in myths but millions get
devoted to their crooked sense of life and false principles every day. Nymphs, out
of their power are led into a deceitful circle, the periphery of which includes
the gravest of lies told to simple people, to rip them of a golden living. An
uncomplicated and satisfied living.
What answers could be found when the question stands hanged.
The pleasure was all buried inwards, still is, but there are no diggers.
3 comments:
I've had peace, at different points of life, moments, no matter how dearly I held on to them, noted the exact recipe that led me to them, proved to be as ephemeral as the chimera of Utopia. I was given, and denied.
Gods, did not destroy anything, nor are they hollow at the least, if not anything else, it is their salesmen selling it the wrong way.
Dig inside, true, and you'll find it, Golden living.
Cheers,
Blasphemous Aesthete
Wrongs or not wrongs, the rights are still concealed.
The brief nature of fulfillment and in more common words, the constant swinging of the human emotions is so true an affair to be testified upon, fought for, argued with. The pleasure demands our lost attention, which only rests in our hands.
There will be an answer, let it be..
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