our battles are our own. though the external swirl and circumstance informs and challenges our notions, ultimately the war is within.
i don’t know what to fucking do.
it’s a start. it’s raw. it’s the real you punching through the tumultuous surface and cracking the facade. you don’t have to know what to do. not all the time…
because our culture is all about the do-ing; for so long, we’ve subverted all greater aspects of our humanity for the sake of maintaining a machine called economy and sustenance and productivity…
are there ANY tribal leaders, chiefs, gurus, priests, shamans, or storytellers sitting at any gathering, recounting ancient stories of the great banks and corporations and mortgages and universities and concrete? fuck no.
the oldest stories are about language, of love, of art, of myths and legends, of battles, of ascension and spiritual transformation, of shapeshifting, of mastering the elements, of dancing with the nature spirits, of family – from here and from other worlds.
we’ve carried massive lies within us so long that we question our sanity, before we question the construct and framework from which it derives. we are so fiercely protective of our little tiny spaces, our little tiny collections of things, that we don’t see how suppressed the cohesion and source of all things has become…
making us all believe we’re merely little, tiny, people.
no. i don’t know what to fucking do.
but, i can be hurting, now and again – for me, for you. resolve has only ever come by feeling through the aches, pains, stagnation, frustration and necessary madness. i welcome the beautiful retrospective, the cleaner slate, the naked canvas.
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