The plans I have for my life are not philanthropic. I am not involving myself in charitable organizations or ministries. I have no desire to work for the benefit of other people. What are these people to me? I often wonder if the plans I’ve made for myself – hiking, traveling, writing – if they are selfish. I will not leave behind a legacy of human progression or betterment. But I consider this: what I do, I do for the belief in my soul that I can live apart from the commodities of modern civilization; that I can traverse the ground beneath me without the pleasures of wealth; that I can live as human being, created from the earth for the earth, separate from the entities of career, societal purpose, or monetary pursuit. I want to enjoy life – not to be exempt from its hardships or laborious tasks, but to enjoy being. Free from cultural restraints, though understanding and appreciating the purpose of culture. I will work when I need to work, travel when I want to travel, live as a creature in the woods, though I will not always be in the woods. And in doing all these things, perhaps I will inspire others to find what I find, even as it is yet unknown to me. That will be the great adventure.
Thursday, December 19, 2013
Mountain air. Even through city streets I recognize the smell of it. Fresh. Heavy. Polluted by the time it reaches my nose, but I know it. I sit at the edge of my bed right next to the open window and stare at the horizon, how the warm summer sun envelopes the city. I feel the soft, heavy breeze of the mountain air even here in my apartment. It makes me wish I was not here in the city. It makes me miss home, where my window faced a large field and the woods beyond. I look below my windowsill and there is only a school building and a street. We industrialize everything we see. Will the mountains find a way to avoid our havoc?
The following is a collection of thoughts written down after a few hours of entheogenic fun.
I think I lived here long ago.
My hands find some numbness to write when I think about the old.
Where I threw greens and peaches and reds, I found some kind of growth.
Why worry about connotation when there is no meaning at all.
It’s a trip. It’s beautiful, but I have to go back. A trip doesn’t last forever.
Somehow EVERYTHING rhymes, and it’s fucking beautiful.
I find some consolation for all their wrongs just to find some peace of my own.
(Sketched picture of sailor commanding a ship across the sea at night)
We are sitting around a common stone, only hailed with different flags.
Something about buffaloes, I don’t know.
There is a glass pavilion of stars above my head. I see each one.
Your eyes must burn for your lies. I must be guilty, too.
I need deeper nourishment.
I’m on the mountain path that comes before death. We all walk together.
Your body is to me as the clouds are to the sky.
I wonder what knowledge can truly do to us.
We exist relatively in a world of change
Preference and guilt have no place
I sit in a solitary space
As the world, relatively, will change
Here we are born to manipulate
Opinion and fact are the same
Hoist high our flags when we say
Here we will manipulate
We claim that love is fate
Yet dismantle that love in a day
We don’t know why we lie or obey
Only death is truly our fate