Magic

Perhaps it was the disturbance of something alien in his veins that caused the shift in thinking. He was as always unaware of how deeply home-brewed mead affected him. Alcohol was alcohol, some would argue, but they didn’t account for psychological aspects – or the tradition and mythology behind the brewing. In his case it was neither, magic ruled him. It always had. Flowing through him was not the the flashy hands-on magic of contemporary con artists, but the ancient magic of words well spoken.

Subtle nuances in speech, a seemingly subconscious shift in tone or inflection. That was his kind of magic, the kind that lingered in the hearts of people. Mead, his thoughts always travelled in old patterns he had somehow forgotten when the magic of mead flowed through his veins and the ancient skalds whispered in his ears. It was one of his greatest pains that he could not seem to replicate what he heard.

But the magic was in him tonight, and his tongue gilded words in silver. But all wealth did not come from glittering things. Skaldic influence or not, there were things of which he could not speak, there were truths he could not utter. Such was the nature of the Old Magic, words well spoken just as words spoken unwell carried consequences with them. That was why love had never once been spoken, in words that did it justice.

Few are fools enough to curse themselves, and those who are either do not live very long or are doomed to live forever. The real question was, “which one am I?”

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Humanity

What does it mean to be human?
Could someone explain it to me?
There’s something I don’t quite get,
When it comes to humanity.
It’s not quite compassion,
Or a desire for equality,
But rather a thought of peculiar fashion,
Untouched by morality.
Between virtue and vice,
There is room aplenty,
For humans and… other beings.
Between hostility and compassion,
In the grey of gray of neutrality,
We don’t find many.
Truth be told, I just don’t get it ~
The nature of human duality.

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Net Neutrality

Something everyone should know about.

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Curious

It frustrates me knowing there’s an answer being dangled in front of me,
I’m being baited like some kind of fish.
In a sense I am not unlike a fish,
Since I’ve not yet reached the cognitive peak I aspire to,
The crevice in the mountainside up among the clouds ~
I can sense it but never quite grasp it.
Curiosity is such a bothersome quirk…

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Nigh(t)

Last night it almost happened again,
I am on the verge,
I’ve almost rediscovered how,
To see with my eyes closed.

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Feed Your Monsters

Every so often I find myself making yet another attempt at reconciliation with my inner demons, but my ambition never quite comes to fruition. There is a sort of propriety in that kind of failure, in attempting to claim the title of spiritualist. I don’t have much in the way of wisdom, heh, amusing thought. No, but what I do have, however, is a host of ghosts with whom I continuously find myself having to parley. At least they’re willing to talk, to negotiate, unlike the demons. There it is, the truth. I’m neither dispossessed or enlightened, nor have I entered the Void. I am in no way unique in this regard, everyone carry with them some kind of monster.

Monstrous, where the humane fails to persevere it will endure. It is the predatory instinct, the cut-throat impulse that is anathema to those who proclaim honest, human decency. Quite amusing, considering that everything monstrous is of human origin or human invention. Perhaps inherent in the very word monster is the association with Evil. An assumption not necessarily wrong, but certainly hasty. In the face of great peril, monsters are what keeps us alive. They are the frighteningly overwhelming sensations that we, in our cradled and overprotected way of life, have become afraid of. They’re the unseen hands grasping at us from the shadows. It is the loss of control that frightens, the true face of the Monster is our own weakness – our inability to let go.

So I feed my monsters daily, I entertain my demons, and converse with my ghosts. I do so to aw knowledge them, and through acknowledgement they are set free – and I can let go. I can let go of worry, I can let go of trouble, and I can let go of pain. I can do so with confidence, because I’ve realised what there is to gain, by feeding your monsters.

Tranquility, serenity, peace of mind.

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Undeserving king, delusional tyrant

Perhaps spiritual inconsistency is befitting a man such as myself, a hybrid species of weekend-Buddha and weekday-pariah. Inconsistency is a mark most noticeable, more apparent than any brand burnt unto unwilling skin. We can become accustomed to all kinds of horror, assured repetition prevails. It is a sad thing. It is not so strange, then, that uncomfortable truths – all but painfully apparent but blatantly ignored – become a source of such turmoil.

Anomalies and inconsistencies refusing to bow down or take a knee before the tyrant sitting upon the throne of normality, waving a scepter of conformity in our faces. He has become tainted, spreading a disease called mediocrity to souls undeserving of such cruel punishment. A celebrated crown of sameness, stagnant and doomed to rust, corroded by blatant racism and ignorance – the inseparable siblings. In a kingdom of nothing but glorified gold, led becomes all the more valuable. Profane idols and desecration of human decency.

No, I will have none of it. I will continue my worship of the goddess named diversity and hope that noticeable inconsistency can nurture culture and inspire compassion. It does not take a sage to know that it is right to love.

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