Is that what you really want?
Is that what you really want?
I’m an extreme mist of the worst kind,
I’ll pose at one end of the spectrum,
In full sight,
Or a midnight blind.
I’ll fog your thoughts,
Stir the soil to be sewn,
Have you scurrying back and forth,
Rope ends of your mind.
So push me to that end,
Or to the other,
Through the thickness of it all,
Who knows what you’ll find.
Time to hijack the term back from the lazy throws and empty prattling of media musers.
Too long it has been deployed by the mass hysteria-mongering media, abused to stigmatise people.
Words are not theirs to use when they cannot appropriately contextualise them. They are ours.
The word extremist is not evil, not in the correct context or deployment.
Shakespeare is an extremist.
Beethoven is most definitely an extremist.
Einstein an extremist.
Ghandi an extremist.
Any person of worth or merit devotes themselves to an extreme beyond the norm to spring forth greatness and beauty the conformity of society cannot produce collectively in their mediocrity.
For me, the ability to write only comes in the stillness of the night.
Thoughts, ideas, musings and pondering pass through me during the day.
A word from him, a look from her, a thought from that person expressed through mere presence, my guard is up and I’m on alert and I take notes but I only find the reaping at night when silence prevails, my belly is empty, life forms are otherwise dead and the stillness allows it all to manifest.
Like a bashful girl summoned from behind a veil, some things deserve their own stage.
You must find that place and realise the worlds most noble sages, scholars, writers, artists, musicians and poets all revelled in solitude.
Some may need alcohol to remove these filters and inhibitions, but it will always be a mask, a psychotropic drug that keeps the demons at bay long enough for you to function. But the best of your work will only come when the body is pure, detoxified of material and of ego and ripe with a fertile soil.
They told me, go for a walk, get some shut eye, clear your mind.
What would they know? Mindless drivel at it’s best because what they don’t realise is, I don’t want my mind cleared.
No, I’m quite happy lingering in these thoughts, sifting through the web of confusion, the echoes of pain that percuss off the valleys and mountains of my soul, haunting it with a northerly wind carrying the scent of uncertainty, through rocks, rustling restless leaves until they settle on the garden beds of meadows and compost into the soil of my heart.
I’ll sit right here in this corner, away enough for you to not be the piece of furniture in your way, quite content to have these thoughts punishing me, rummaging through my being enticing every cell of my body to engage in recreating memories or forging the future.
What you don’t realise is that clearing your mind is emptying your soul of substance.
Pain is there to help you grow.
Confusion is there to help you figure things out, to allow your brain to exercise.
Sadness is there so you may elate in the joy and know it’s value when it hits you in the front teeth, lest you remain an ingrate.
The voices are there not because you’re a schizophrenic, but because they’re meant to keep you company and offer you another perspective to the one you harbour in your heart, be it at the opposite end of the spectrum or merely a few inches away from where your thoughts currently reside, still you need something off course to correct your path and purify it.
Anger is there to keep you on your toes, alert so you never sway from clarity of purpose.
Whatever it is, don’t be a numb and mindless drone, subservient to the commands of the mundane. Ride the edge of your character and crack its whip until your fingers bleed or your mind annihilates.
Whilst everyone is busy making their mark in this world, somewhat proving they exist, I’m trying to figure out how not to leave any trace of my existence, no footprint or burden on the earth and it’s inhabitants to accuse me of anything when my corpse is fed back to the earth, lest they extract their rights from me.