"Does all sit there with you, with the mystic unseen soul?"
A Song for Occupations
A Song for Occupations
Never imagine yourself in the constructs that require an age. For myself that would be 32, today. In fact, don't imagine yourself often; not in the past, the future, nor in the present. There are mirrors, conversations, photographs, news-feeds, social media stories, self-marketing opportunities, and windows to become a high followed influencer. Yet the quotidian chores, which are mundane and empowering, flourish and beckon us from the former attractiveness of our cultural malnourishment. Our hyper-capitalist society cannot defeat the synthesis of routine and human experience. It will tempt us to pursue euphoric comfort where worry is annulled and fear is fluffy like the clouds. For it imagines us so we can rest our own imagination. However, we must be pragmatic and disciplined.
Actions such as cooking, eating your cooked plate, then washing said plate, making the bed, doing the laundry in a collaborative manner in house are all dignity in essence. I often ask myself- where is my ability to live an intense present tense? That naturally fomented humanity where search and destroy is cherished and has been thus so since I walked away from formal education. But there, gaps will always exists. Sometimes I call this an abyss, or a silence, the functional unknowns. A certain one, a gap of sorts, where the imagination goes on a hiatus– a journey. An array of goads circulate and pock this journey, like an asteroid belt in ones personal solar system that is simply a blip in their cosmos. It may seem like we sit and rest on these goads, hampering creativity and imagination. Despite the often frustrating sense of sedentariness and insufficiency, I confidently found an encouraging forward motion in faith that my 30s is where the zenith of life waits and begs to be submersed in the cold stimulating waters of existence and becoming. I have arrived and am currently typing as a triple decade old being. What were then goads are now my tender and caring surrogate roots to the both ideal and real tree of life. This poplar is a leafless tree feebly standing, watered in shame and repulsive to anyone looking to rest in its shade or clamber up its branches. The bark is rotten, perhaps, exposing mangy trunk only leaving a presupposition that the innards of the tree are equally atrophic. But alas! Both the undertones and undercurrents hold a mystic amber sap. Gooey and juvenile. It runs, dulcet, slowly, and surely to coat and cover the admired greater forests diversity and wisdom. It is the river that summons all in proximity. Mysteries are alive and hope is predated and latent, seeds in the earth that will blossom sooner than later. Becoming a tree walking with its many arms and possibilities is the only option. I step forward to germinate this garden of the intense present tense.
Actions such as cooking, eating your cooked plate, then washing said plate, making the bed, doing the laundry in a collaborative manner in house are all dignity in essence. I often ask myself- where is my ability to live an intense present tense? That naturally fomented humanity where search and destroy is cherished and has been thus so since I walked away from formal education. But there, gaps will always exists. Sometimes I call this an abyss, or a silence, the functional unknowns. A certain one, a gap of sorts, where the imagination goes on a hiatus– a journey. An array of goads circulate and pock this journey, like an asteroid belt in ones personal solar system that is simply a blip in their cosmos. It may seem like we sit and rest on these goads, hampering creativity and imagination. Despite the often frustrating sense of sedentariness and insufficiency, I confidently found an encouraging forward motion in faith that my 30s is where the zenith of life waits and begs to be submersed in the cold stimulating waters of existence and becoming. I have arrived and am currently typing as a triple decade old being. What were then goads are now my tender and caring surrogate roots to the both ideal and real tree of life. This poplar is a leafless tree feebly standing, watered in shame and repulsive to anyone looking to rest in its shade or clamber up its branches. The bark is rotten, perhaps, exposing mangy trunk only leaving a presupposition that the innards of the tree are equally atrophic. But alas! Both the undertones and undercurrents hold a mystic amber sap. Gooey and juvenile. It runs, dulcet, slowly, and surely to coat and cover the admired greater forests diversity and wisdom. It is the river that summons all in proximity. Mysteries are alive and hope is predated and latent, seeds in the earth that will blossom sooner than later. Becoming a tree walking with its many arms and possibilities is the only option. I step forward to germinate this garden of the intense present tense.
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