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Capacities of Clouds


With such heights
to fall
the lovers
must all
be suicidal
on some level

As clouds merge into sky truths imbued sorrowful

I will say
beauty depends on pain
as night
depends on day

The only fear one should have
is happiness…

The insurmountable physics

After so many footsteps
into depth
And thoughts…
into death

Such a depth or height
to explore
because happiness
is no more
than the illusion
of totality
and this illusion
is confronted by reality
eventually
even though some aspects of reality
are a malleability

but with that
you give up your control
over your love of things not so light but bright
with the depth of the unknowable hole in your soul
that makes you two halves of a whole

(I do not know if this is dark or morbid but I am reflecting… We will say I am reflecting on the song “I’m only happy when it rains”.  But there is some truth to the song.  To go further, it may not be so much that there is no happiness, or that happiness is a hindrance; it may be that this thing may be poorly defined and misconfigured in modern times.  We are told that sadness is a sin, just as we are told that the shamans are schizophrenic.  In my experience, sadness is an oracle and a teacher.  I have always functioned best as a wanderer and a shadow.  In order to reach the quantum, there must be the presence of duality.  But who the hell can even understand this or begin to embrace such perilous things, let alone understand their values.  

Methodically, everything has become forbidden in a gradual constricting movement, or…  Will to suppression.  I believe this most effects those with proclivities of the creative, as they are the ones who surf these waves and create beautiful things, and without these beautiful things the world devolves and loses value.  

They will call you bi-polar, depressive, anxiety ridden, and things like this, catch phrases pulled from the psychopathic DSM book, which states categorically that everyone is insane.

As for me…  Damn…  When I see the sun diffusing the clouds I seem to say.  

“Leave my fucking clouds alone.  I love the rain.”

Very fucking confounding, probably.

And probably should be embarrassing, maybe.)
Written by Cipher_O (WarlordoftheWrittenWord)
Published
Author's Note
I was thinking of the concept of a muse. I always felt like perhaps I have had muses, but along with this I perceived a force in my creative sphere that I always thought of an "intellectual daemon".  I believe there are certain elements of existence which this daemon prefers.  I am most reminded of this in the contemplation of or the confrontation with certain ideations.  

I love the fucking spleen...  WTF.
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