The truth about the Meaning of Life...

Life is as simple as a conversation with Time. The conversation itself can never, alone, be simple in itself but in order to understand the perspective of our lives we need to have it. Time is all of those fleeting moments which we miss and continue to observe. The emptiness that rests at the bottom of the glass of water we watched evaporate. The last breath of steam off of that cup of coffee you never got to finish this morning. That moment you let the love of your life fall through your fingers like sands on the beaches of the tropics.

We need not to converse about the meaning as truth be told would be pointless and irrelevant. We constantly ask of life what the point of it all is, why we suffer, why we feel happy and what the meaning of our life really is? In the desperate attempts to ask the right questions we forget to truly live our lives. We, in fact, miss the point of life it self. Life can be nothing more than what we make of it and if all we make of it is demands of it to tell us what we are missing rather uncovering that which we are missing.

Everything in Life can be no different. Not that this is anything different than what we all understand at some point in our lives. Those which surround me seem to spend their time demanding the point of their life and forget that life is not about the point or the meaning of it but it is about living life. It is about associating the events in all of our lives to one another to uncover the meaning of it. None is right nor wrong, but life will never give us its meaning without us in fact living through life itself.

It is a matter of conversing with Time to finally come to the truth about our lives. Rather than running from the difficulties which will occur throughout everyday, we should face them. By bracing the issues of our lives we will slowly become more adept at discovering the silver lining in life and ignore distress of the problems. It is from the silver lining that we will be able to interpret the meaning of our lives.

"It is illogical to feel responsible for the problems of others. We are only responsible when we do not offer the help which we can and we choose not too. If we can help, we should. If we can not we have no reason to feel responsible for the issue of the other person before us." - Authors Note 89

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When I finally found an escape from my hell,

I found myself looking for the escape from the escape.

"The souls breath the inspiration that comes from those around you; whether it be sorrow, pain, happiness, love, hate or any other emotion." - Authors note 06

What life would be....

Even though we are just silhouettes,

Shadows of what we once were,

We shared our scars, our memories,

Our triumphs, our failures, our sorrows

And our joys.

We connected the dots,

Created a sail boat,

Plotted a course and went for the horizon.

I sit here now, on the shore of the unconscious

Sand under each nail

Driving into the sign of this new home,

Dreaming about the moments we shared

And the plans we had for each other.

It was your eyes

Elegant and brave like the rising sea,

It was your smile warming as the sun

Your patience that made the sand and the shore

And your love that sparked the heart of man.

It is here

in my lonely solitude

That I wonder what life would be.

"It hurts more to be creating happiness than it does to watch it from the side lines." - Authors note 48

The Clutter fades and the Writer dreams of...

Love;

Its fickle rivers run through

Like veins from the heart.

Memories breaking like twigs of forests

Fading along with the black of night

As silhouettes amongst the backdrop.

Life;

Its concrete division of breath

Like tears of a newborn child.

Truth and Catastrophe

Like the devastation to a wasteland

Words drifting on the whim of winds.

Laughter;

Its remedy to any ailment

With the subtlety of a thief at night.

The moon on either side

Silver lighting as the lime light truth,

And shadows dancing with the stars.

"The horizon will always be just over the ridge of sight; however, if one looks around with open eyes everything that one desires is right there at their feet. " - Authors note 50

Compassion

In the essence of all things, rest a single and tiny notion. So small and yet so important to the fabric of life that we as a people, rational human beings ignore it. Blocking it from our consciousness, our hearts; we build walls to keep it at bay; employ others to censure it, torture to harden and grasp at the gate that surrounds it. We forget this intricate part of the framework of nature and life, losing it amongst the areas we impede ourselves upon. Instead, we replace this impedance with leaving pieces of ourselves amongst the world we walk upon, leaving bits at every stop until nothing remains. When realization hits we tumble along a pointless and empty path of life. Void of the virtues which once presented themselves. Civilization is not immune to this sorrow filled phenomenon, from era to era this tumbling has occurred bringing us with it in its snow balling inflation. A broken soul push a shopping cart can contest better than the material gold in which we surround ourselves with, in a desperate attempt to collect the pieces which we have lost in the world.

So here we are now at the breaking point of life, spiraling downwards like a fish stuck in a whirlpool. There are few choices open to us: Our First is that we can fight the current valiantly denying we have lost anything until we finally collapse, going out like a turtle who has regressed into its shell; The Second we keel over and accept our deceitful defeat; The Last, however, we can rebuild ourselves amongst the current and adapting, leave the selfish desires, the feelings of envy and greed on the mantel pieces of the past. There are indeed very few things which all creatures, objects and beings have in common, this is one of those commonalities, and perhaps the only one.

It is the essence of all things, deserving of all things but forgotten by most and ignored by others.

"Enlightenment, knowledge, morality and intellect are the qualities which all strive to hold but only few accept the burden and the pain that comes with them. Sacrifice and compromises must be made to obtain success in our lives, our loves and our desires." - Authors note 05

The Burden and Sorrow of Writers Block...

In the silent screams of souls

Torn apart by their own emptiness

The breaking point of the withered rose

And the cries of the lost lover.

These are the darknesses that surround us

Which infect the clouds above

And rain down Angel's solemn hymns

The edges of the blade

That sink in past the rib cage.

The reason the moon shines brighter

Than the unrelenting sunshine;

He watches ink spill out of a pen

Like blood washing over paper.

The masterpiece resting within the mind,

Like the headstone of a Tomb.

He watches through a glass at a crow

Gazing like a judge in the wind

The voice that surrounds

Breath from the darkness

In flicking candle light silently speaking

Illuminating the eyes like memories

When the crow spreads its wings and flies away.

"Dear Followers,

It has been four weeks of suffering with the eternal burden of writers block. The wonders of school related stress has caused the arrogance of mental block. It had stolen, blocked and locked the words in an unreachable vault somewhere in the depths of my mind. This is a letter of apology to all of you lovely people. I hope you enjoyed the first thing after my writers block. Please forgive me for my absence, I hope that my writers block to have been annihilated and to return to at least one post every week or so. Enjoy.

Yours truly,

Invidus." - Authors Note 79

Inspiration

Here within the depth of the mind

Caverns extend endlessly, lit by torches

Casting shadows along the pathway, welcoming.

Voices whisper like a reckoning

Speaking each word carefully like the poet Virgil to Dante

As a stairwell emerges echoed in mists;

The silent hymns of the mind's breath.

With torch lights remembering candle flames

The stairwell spirals downward with a cold chill.

A room, still as a statue, full as the heart

At the edges of the stairs laying like a fateful servant

Surrounded in liquid crystal, an orchid upon a pedestal.

Shimmering in the darkness, growing amongst a void

Cold and desolate, she blooms unknown

A flower perfect beyond all else, the lover's muse.

For the final fleeting moment that face appears

As the Orchid blooms. Reflections of muse's memories

Locked away in that desolate place.

Forever more, this pen will scratch at the page

Ever seeking the silent songs of that Orchid

Resting in solitude like a Jewel encased in fire.

"...and life is nothing more than the conquest of random events over the unknown." - Authors note 81