Chained

_ Left on their own, and to their own devices, birds do not die. It is only when they are acted upon by external forces that they succumb to the endeavor of living - dying.

_ The conditions we impose upon existence have the same atomic weight that the limitations imposed upon us at birth do.

_ Savvy marketers create the image, put forth the enticement in easily digestible form and stock the shelves. Wasn't it you that I bumped into at the Store of Stores?

_ Tip-toe softly leaving. Take your place amongst the rabble; and hope that a scrap of bread, untouched by the immortals, comes your way.

_  Oh is that it? Am I to be humbled?

_ Who am I to say what you are to be? The precise incision; the keen blade of living... effortlessly it carves expectation into unwieldy chunks of disappointment upon which we choke.

_ To the Vomitorium! A sluice of expectorate liberally sprinkled with bile and dimension; it's what makes mother's milk so special.

_ Howsaboy?

_ I sit here in a practiced manner; beyond that a blue sky.

_ A greater vehicle... a greater vehicle is always at our disposal. I guess we'll bang around in the wheel-wells of the rust-bucket we've grown accustomed to; the practiced manner. You didn't ask me.

_ Howsaboy?

_ A buffoon on an empty stage. I speak the language of the living into the ears of those afraid of dying: A greater vehicle is here, now; it purrs like a kitten.

_ Hmm...

_ To be so far removed from our own nature as to fear it; to not know; to fear. Run forward to the past, backward to the future; to a slipknot we are chained - it is the basis of all forms of bondage.

_ You know that guy who sits over in the corner and eats imaginary bugs? When people ask him, "Howsaboy?", he generally says, " Fine.", or, " You know, same shit, different day." He seems pretty content. I think that, left to his own devices, he might live forever. I'm going to go and study with him.

_ Shall I order you a chai?

_ As you like.

                                                                    *************

... Free... Would we know how to act?

... " The staggering daylight of no thought." Ulysses by James Joyce. Wrap your mind around that and a slipknot pops its cork. Celebration time is here.

photocredit