Untitled Musing

Through the whims of a dreamlike state I fix my open eyes onto the ceiling and listen to the brush of my fresh meditation. I find myself being carried over voices and scenarios that play repeatedly inside me. I see old faces of love and paint an image of perfection with the colours of every woman that ever stepped on my heart. I think of poetry and the refuge inwrought within it. I smell its home; its counsel, its patience and subtle devotion, taking me by the hand each time to cull every confession out of me like a naked water birth. I now believe poems are the last true gold, woven in a silk tapestry by ignited Gods. Back and forth I go waltzing with the metaphysics of language and words that keep me from sleep, words that swim like silver dolphins through my mind and drench my pillow with salt water. I see shapes and pin to them labels and images, I pull apart ideas that gatecrash these tranquil hours and look to plunge myself into their heart, their root, that so meticulously reappears at precisely the same starlit hour every night. I take my pad and rummage through my bed sheets to find an old pen. I write for sometime about something that will fail to be a memory by dawn. 

My thoughts come in sporadic bursts as for an instant I find myself lodged in a world where hairs talk to each other. I see them standing lithe with the stance of relaxed soldiers, a uniform of black, or brown, or blonde. Suddenly an instant wind comes and desecrates their calm. Crashing into one another I see a head of chaos and disorder, long strands of black hair being forced back into retreat by the tyrannous wind, I hear them yell at one another, comrades who have been adjoined for some while, brothers who have developed…I can see the metaphor begin to reveal itself to me, soldiers, war, hair strands, wind being the enemy, the head being the country, what will the cause be? It stops here. I think of the word hate and I see people walking down roads, faces weighed with detestation, scrunched and frowning. I think of countries and people who remain forever blank in our conciseness, yet somehow we are taught to begrudge, dislike and not concern ourselves with their suffering. How the workings of a few men can be so detrimental to the universal human spirit. How is hate manifested? How is it engineered and dispensed amongst the masses? Can we hold animosity towards someone who is a complete stranger or do we need a catalyst? I thought back to times when I was angry, when I threw bombs of rebellion onto the barren streets of my youth, and I failed to recall the reason why, yet now I understand.

Its not the politicians we hate, nor is it the precarious system we abide to, nor is it the lawyers, the bankers, the civil authorities, the black man, the white man, the Christian, the Jew, the Muslim, the extremist, the pacifist, the idealists, the perfectionist, the narcissists, the blue team, the red team, the nihilists, the rockers, the emos, the hippies, the skinheads, the Rastas, the Imam, the priests, the rich, the poor, the women, the men, the smokers, the junkies, the addicts, the whores, the pimps, the communists, the capitalists, the dreamers, the exploiters, the homosexuals and bisexuals, the animals, the trees, the rivers and the fish that fill them like dreams, its none of these things. All the woes of the world are not meant to subordinate the human spirit into a passive state of automated animosity; they merely require some study and understanding, as with that will open the palms of an ever long peace. So this leads me to believe that the only ones we ever really hate are ourselves. Love has now become the last sanctifying idea to prevail in all its absence.