You ache and I push you;
Otherwise we are idle,
Cementing ourselves into beds, chairs and couches.
The reality of us is hard to parse,
And as I press the lines blur:
Are you me or my?
The only philosophy I hold dictates one thing,
Which befuddles me, evades explanation:
You are both.
Running becomes an exercise of existential philosophy,
Weights are the metaphor
But to continue, this is the practice.
Each day between abstraction and the figurative
While bodily wear mounts;
Is this the path to our next evolution? or a folly along the way?
The ghost of myself in the mirror;
It’s a phantom,
And it can’t contain my mind,
Not my spirit,
Nor my indelible memories.
But still this figure glares;
Sizing up the corporeal counterpart,
as if usurp-planning,
As if it’ll one day wear this skin
And still the memory.
This is the haunted figure,
There, but not actually
It is me, but just an abstraction;
If you laid eyes on us,
We’d be identical
The figure haunts me so;
It is a ghast, an abomination of self,
A being of multi-dimensions shredded into two,
A chimera in perfect disguise;
Who couldn’t be me because I’m me.
But to anyone else, what’s the difference?
I am you,
You, who is before this page,
you, with those dreams:
I am you
And you are me;
These words are yours
And they are written for you
No other distinction matters.
Opposites converge within me;
I contain multitudes.
I contradict and argue with myself,
Not knowing what truth is.
Philosophy blurred the realm I thought as truth,
(How naive I was then)
The deeper the digging the more I un-knew.
What the point of “truth” when reality is questionable?
They asked me why I read the esoteric;
Hermeticism, Rosicurianism, new age, and so on,
I told them even “I” didn’t know.
Mind suspended from reality is the best candidate.
Answers come in flashes feeling like lightening,
the esoteric pulls me, not for conversion;
Not that I may practice magick,
Not that I may convert lead to gold.
(There’s lightning in the distance,
It back lights a dead tree next to a a prosperous one)
I am propelled onward to extract metaphor,
To absorb the ideas of all fields and then
To re-experience through these new senses,
that are laden with symbols.
This is my ars magica;
My modus vivendi.
I am the extreme of the stoic philosophy;
My day dreams are fifty percent worst case scenarios,
My thoughts three fifths doom and gloom;
At least, per their tradition, I’ll be ready for the worst,
But at what cost?
I don’t even know the difference,
Between myself and my environment,
Between myself and this inexhaustible world;
Where are its borders?
Wielding the first human tool,
My perceptions, my sensuous nature,
The borders are clear;
Any representational artist can see this.
Murk infests the waters when we “look” beyond.
I see the lush grass,
The plush blanket of earth (though this is dwindling)
And I see it, too, within myself.
The percept becomes the perceiver,
Distinctions between nature and nurture evaporate;
For we are nurtured by nature,
And all without is within.
If there’s a Platonic demon within,
Let her guide my hand;
Guide each uncertain letter,
Even as the mind draws blank.
If there’s a Platonic demon within,
At least I’m not alone;
In this body there’s room for two, at least;
Though, I think o Victor Hugo and realize I hold a world, too.
Socrates yielded to his diamon,
And was still sentenced to death;
Forced to drink poison hemlock, and walk
Until the poison ran its course.
What use are you then?
Yet you guide my hand to that question;
I’ll answer your call, and this is the testament,
But will I be like Socrates and meet my end following you?