Rubble

When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.

1 Corinthians 13:11

A lot of my neuroticism comes from dodging all the old opium. Opium that may, even today, sustain you.

When I walk about the parks so I mostly hear unknown languages. It’s a one to three ratio. But then I remind myself there never was something to salvage. I don’t materially belong to anything more than a family, and cousins can want to kill you. And, come on lad, leave the spiritual connections to the spiritual planes and messaging.

When I talk to someone grown by the same cultural petri I notice we seem to’ve bloomed in different and severed ways. But I remind myself there never was something to sever. We have nothing static or practical.

When I look at the complete melted, trembling or our wretched, I remember it’s supposed to be smiled upon. Who am I to condemn? It’s all about the cold handle we’re ignoring. Born on Mars and stuck forgetting.

So no, I don’t believe there’s “another configuration” that’ll save everything. The primary and primordial enemy is one’s own mind. Throwing out definitions and labels and hoping for friends or some home to sustain, hope for, but no. There is nothing. There is nothing but a duty and a game to play.

Can’t take comfort in all the old tricks. There is nothing to own, nothing to take to the grave, never dead nor alive. Have to love as coolly and distant as can be. The hubris and looking toward a larger team; temporary alliances are all you’ll know, but savor them if you will.

For even in family so the designated role is delivered: we don’t need anything more than an understanding of our obligations. Hope you hold up your purpose. Stare out of windows inbetween.

Will not find comfort in sure opium, all opium. Camaraderie disguises the scars. There never seemed to be comfort outside of you, if you remember how you ran that day.

The only thing left is to remove the discomfort of the mind.