I Speak of War

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I speak of war, the ever present foundation that keeps the movement possible in the sludge of old age and the wavering tremor found in youth.

The difference between a bubbling sludge and that of a child’s bubble is simple, there is no difference at all. Both can and do sport the membrane of the spectrum – a carnival glass, optical panoramic that can and does mesmerize the mind away from its present pain.


Oh yes there is pain. The worst agony is separation.


The sludge it moves and slouches and reminds the soul of gravity and decay. The bubble a child forms from a breath or in a sweep of their arm and it warbles and sways and explodes in the brief spital of a man’s last breath.


I speak of war, the ever present foundation that keeps the movement possible in the sludge of old age and the wavering tremor found in youth.


It’s a threat by the few imposed upon the many and institutionalized by the love a man has for family, land, faith and the hope of continuance long after he is dead of old age in his bed.


What becomes of us when we die young? What peace that surpasses all understanding gives comfort to those who didn’t know that’s exactly how he felt when he died? Is it obstinacy that keeps us fighting that good fight on one side and subsequent self-defense on the other? Yes, that oxygen pop in the sludge that creeps upon the ground and allows itself to be incased in a fantasy the child creates – is it that touchstone that we must really focus upon? The reason we fight on? We have not tangled choice.


I exist, that’s all I know and how I got here only God knows. There are those who will keep up the futile attempt; break out God’s stain glass window by throwing rocks at it from here. Rocks named for their very ineptness; ‘He doesn’t exist’, God is Dead, ‘We are God,’ – all such manner of name that only end up hitting other men in the back of their head.


God sits upon his throne and laughs – that’s what I’m told by men of old. God laughs at man’s threats and keeps His eye on the sparrow. What else can He do after writing love letters all day long that no one reads except to glean what comfort they can for themselves.


All the while the squelch of war continues to ooze in great abundance along surface of the earth and we either keep our head above the sucking, demanding, miasma or feather starve ourselves of reality so that we can keep the bubble well that encases us afloat.


I speak of war, the reality of it now is – perhaps we are better off to be a part of this final threat; to die together rather than be enslaved by each other. Is it the man who is the threat or the instigator that love letters warn us against? Who knows, we never read, we listen to those who have our trust, those who pull the sludge up and pop the bubble above our heads so as to blame anyone else.

 

 

 

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