the reality of our absurd

 

knowing is the use of artificial light,

to be used in seasons made of circumstance,

for harvesting projections and doubts,

for living on a diet of overwhelms 

and the digestion of sorted intimacies,

and for living in a harvest land 

made of surround.

for we are the offsprings of most-definites,

yet having livelihoods 

that are abstract abound.

and the contexts for our living 

are one dimension shy 

of being solid underfoot.

our relatedness to others

is having shorter half-lives

and our being lied to, 

is becoming more profound.

for as thought is professed,

as the savior of our cognitive religion,

it is becoming less of the prayer of absolutes

and more of the meddlesomeness 

of circumstance.

I am a want for the tongues of touch 

to speak to and for me,

to be no more of the need to compensate

for the blandness 

of the what and the who of me

that understands.

our emotional natures are in want

of more than electronics 

can pseudo provide.

we are in a basic crave 

of campfires of feelings,

of common human elements coming to align

and not be superficially composed 

by despair.

where is it that we go 

to reside in cause-worthy-ness,

to dance in the rituals of human delight.

where is it within, 

that soul-searching garnishes us 

with inward rewards.

we are becoming a species 

of only one-child born mentality,

who are not emotionally socialized 

into a family of more than themselves, 

as the one.

there is want for family ties

that are more than sympathies exchanged.

experience, as our parents, have lied to us.

safe-harbor was only the tone 

in their voices.

and the stories they spoke of 

were fundamentally untrue.

and so now we all want to sing 

wordless songs,

to regain our faith in humankind. 

for creating in the moment 

is its own blessedness,

as certitudes were to be discovered 

as white lies.

we are born-agains, 

only out of emotional alignment.

what is sacred to be discovered about living,

is not the intake to our minds

but the output of our feelings.

for maybe we come from 

the gene-pool of ascendency.

and our wisdom comes from 

the feel of our every breath.

for us to realize ourselves 

as a light-source of isness.

and for us to end the narrative 

of profit and debt.

for time, as we know of it, 

is a false prophet. 

and worth is only measures 

of shadows cast.

for we could be from 

ancient bloodlines of exuberance, 

seduced and reduced 

by the use of our experience,

as the adoring mirror 

held in one's hand,

as we became aware, 

more so of light reflected

than of being the light of oneself 

from within.

where experience became 

the commentary of relatedness

and we became the cognitive 

of its conclusions as deride. 

we have given appearance 

the nature of being symbolic.

we live in a world 

to ambitiously avoid sensory override. 

please embrace my tones 

yet dismiss my words,  

for I am essentially made of more heartfelt 

than my meanings could apply.

know me more by feel,

more than think could ever justify.

we all want to leave the nouns of us

and become once again, 

the collective commonness of verb.

we all want to be the reveal, 

from the language of emotion-speak,

where we exist as a oneness,

before we ever delved into this mindfulness,

as the reality of our absurd . . .