Missing people

What if the clouds carried no rain for so long that the skies cried from the misery of the ground.

What if the sound of thunder was so distant that the memory of noise was mythical.

What if the cracking of the surface created separations.

What is people are actually ground and their story is one of plate tectonics, a gradual drifting and grating, the cracks betray the gaps.

if the crust was one, people would win the fight against the sundering. No more would wars entangle for all of man would be in communion, the exstacy of connection.

Many tims the sea rolls in to fill the cracks of evil men. The sea is and always was the energy flows of ancient eons. But we sons were not made aquatic, those who swim do so at their own risk.

I have swam out as far as I could and had to be rescued several times. The need for exploration is strong in some and insomniacs are fixed on this possibility.

what if people realized the cracks could be repaired, the minces could be ignored, the nibbling mice kept from the store.

what if it is all inside the head, these cracks, these rabbit holes. What if there is no floor to be cracked no flood to fill them.

People would stop buying titles and labels. We are one, there is no crack. The truth is it is all inside the head but his head is reality.

the floor is cracked only seldom for me, as I grow it cracks less.

It is in these cracks where dark things hide. THe monsters from the trenches.

The picture is Atlantis slipping beneath the waves, the breaking up of a mighty individual or city or land or group or anything name we wish to designate.

People fall in love with words far more than is useful. A name is a pointer to something else. When it ceases to point correctly the code becomes entangled, it does not run. There was a time when words were understood to be language. Now, the words are becoming stronger than the reality that bore them, changing and mutating, the outside of the box is slipping into zodiac signs and celestial realms. there is no spoon.

When one realizes the state of the dictionary, the world of words, the pandemonium, they realize the power to be had. Truth is fallen in the street let the dead bury the dead.

This is the will to power of the past, the ideology of ranters and tyrants.

If you sell sand, you will always find a buyer, ground that has been ungrounded, ready to be eaten by the sea.

Words are reality in themselves now, let all who understand rule the world.

We are all just players after all. Don't get caught up in the action.

There is also a new way though not olden shadows from the cave nor mirrors from the puddle.

Actual healing is possible, the cracks can be sealed by love, by simply choosing to seal them they will heal, and the patchwork of scars is the beauty of God. The choice is ours but few will choose it for those who know abuse the knowing and rule the weak. Those who don't have aerial photography love the names and borders and culture as they are prone to call it. This sealing though is not commercialism, it is not equality or sameness. NO mendacity, that is all sold sand nothing solid only soiled fragments of the past reconstituated into flashy bulbs and bulbous flabby flesh.

We buy it because taste is Freud's favorite sense.

People will leave the borders if those who know teach truth and do not use it to their advantage.

Let those who lead bear the brunt, the strongest should carry the casket.

The problem is there are a thousand quotes about power, all dealers eventually eat their own sand, all sellers tap their own cellar.

They drink from their own pools and the inbreeding stops the source and fouls the resovoir.

The gifted should be fed at the mouth, but they must stay upon the mountain and above the plain. Not always but usually.

Occasionally, true greatness is born and made and then the kings can walk among the commoners without seizing the prettiest of the poor and eating them.

When people play iwth words they should mock them as the object mocks the mirror

the rim of the world is a rind of the kind that only time can tell
the end of the line is the final sign the age where man will fell.

his doom will be when he returns completely again to the animal frame of mind.

With fancy cars and classy bars, he will live a life of ease tasting and feeling his furry friends and chained to his own disease.

That time is coming soon. It is the peasants that are free.

People will leave the lands when they realize it was only the training course for flight. They yearn for the skies because it looks easier, no rules or restraints. The problem is it is dangerous and only those who pass the bordered course are ready for the race.

do not forget to have the fare when riding toward the damned. The alternative is running fast and lifting off the sand

wheeling free and feeling wings the alien will return to meet the ones that solved the riddles and turned into a bird