25.7.11
unkept history
I need to get these words out of my head. I feel with them is the root of human hope and faith that humanity is equipped with everything it needs to move beyond our misplaced energy towards things and identities. The human spirit can be broken and damn the people who break it. We must uplift and amplify the good in the human spirit.
I sat atop this hill for years now. The branches and bristles biting at my ankles as if they might suffocate me by starting low.
Every day goes by and I imagine what the next will bring. I have seen communities torn apart by sheer incompetence and stubbornness. The leadership here is hollow. Dig. Dig. Dig. And all is hollow.
The histories of whys are unkept - why the gibbous? why the bruised? why the people on leashes? why the proud and the humble? Damn us all if we cannot learn to understand and create room in our memories for the answers.
- - - - - - -
The sisters in the padded room whisper of a cabinet in the middle of the forest where history is stored. A cabinet sits with millions of drawers dusty with age. The birds with red ink on their chest keep these drawers full, they say.
But no one cares of their contents, one passerby said. The sisters are crazy to believe people care for the contents of the cabinets.
- - - - - - -
Damn me if these words don't make it onto pages with lasting ink to share their message.
- - - -
this is fodder for the beginnings of the bird boy book. thoughts are welcome.
I sat atop this hill for years now. The branches and bristles biting at my ankles as if they might suffocate me by starting low.
Every day goes by and I imagine what the next will bring. I have seen communities torn apart by sheer incompetence and stubbornness. The leadership here is hollow. Dig. Dig. Dig. And all is hollow.
The histories of whys are unkept - why the gibbous? why the bruised? why the people on leashes? why the proud and the humble? Damn us all if we cannot learn to understand and create room in our memories for the answers.
- - - - - - -
The sisters in the padded room whisper of a cabinet in the middle of the forest where history is stored. A cabinet sits with millions of drawers dusty with age. The birds with red ink on their chest keep these drawers full, they say.
But no one cares of their contents, one passerby said. The sisters are crazy to believe people care for the contents of the cabinets.
- - - - - - -
Damn me if these words don't make it onto pages with lasting ink to share their message.
- - - -
this is fodder for the beginnings of the bird boy book. thoughts are welcome.
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