A poet’s words,
Are not just written,
They are an inscribed,
Razored calligraphy,
That enters the skin,
Allowing words,
To be worn forever,
From the outside,
In.
Happiness these days has become so thoroughly entombed in the notion of having all that you want, instead of all that you need, that even imagining a life without either a phone or the inter net is far closer to most people’s version of hell than it ever would be their version of happiness.
Which is odd really considering that on some parabolic level we all agree that money cannot buy happiness…..
Or is it that money cannot buy love?
Neither of which is true by the way.
If you are desperately poor and lacking in food, than money would indeed buy you a larger slice of the happiness pie than the one you are currently languishing on.
Remember it’s about having all that you need….. not all that you want.
And as for love….. well….. I guess that’s entirely dependent on your overall concept of love….
Though I have to say….. there aren’t too many lonely millionaires out there….
Whether or not you call paid companionship, in whatever form it takes, (trophy wives, toy boys, sex workers) love, is entirely up to you.
But regardless of the trivialities involved we all buy into the lie that the latest job, car, house, partner, gadget, clothes or holiday destination, will lead us ever closer toward our ultimate goal of happiness.
But why must happiness be our goal in the first place?
Could it be that we humans are now all such greedy creatures that like drug addicts we are all searching for the next big hit of happiness?
A feeling of complete well-being that we’d once experienced organically only in the brief, and the mostly intrinsically earned, moments of time?
Is the endless pursuit of happiness now nothing more than the futile attempt to locate a drug dealer of the mind who simply does not exist?
A dealer who could in reality have never existed because happiness is and always has been a virtue of the soul and not a reward of the mind?
Could we have gotten the concept of happiness so completely confused, that all we are doing in our pursuit of it, is causing ourselves the unnecessary pain of expecting a transient experience to become an unrealistic and unsustainable constant?
Has the idea of happiness become an impossible yard stick?
A stick we use to measure ourselves, to judge our lives by and find them so constantly wanting, that we now end up beating ourselves over the head with it instead?
What do you think?
What would make you happy?
The hidden umbilicus
That connects us all,
In one concentric line,
Dividing up neatly,
The sins,
Of the fathers,
From the sins,
Of the mothers.
Becoming the divine,
The physiological bible,
Of all inheritance,
The double helix of life.
Microscopically measured,
Defined and refined,
Giving both cause,
And effect,
But where in this,
Strand,
Our,
Alchemical necklace,
Is the soul?
On what wrung,
Of the molecular ladder,
Shall we find it?
If it exists at all?
From the seed to the tip of the tree top,
There are no straight lines.
A goal is set,
A decision made,
A course of action taken,
And no matter what,
There are always going to be casualties,
Along the way.
I have been a casualty of other people’s choices,
You have too,
We all are,
Who ever first thought of the ripple effect,
Got it so succinctly right.
No one being on this planet,
Can ever exist,
Without in some way,
Impacting on and affecting another,
Be it over a life line,
Or a brief flash of time,
The ripples we form remain,
Spreading forever outward,
Beyond the origins of their day.
The still-born baby weighs as much as a live one.
It’s impact is as powerful,
Though one stays for a lifetime,
The other but for a second of a day.
The integrity of your small soul,
Is to me as vast as the ocean,
Of unclaimed memories,
That continue to grow,
Expanding and rippling,
Forever outward from my soul,
Searching always,
For your little hand,
To hold.
You try and strip us bare,
Like hair follicles,
You think if you can change our colors,
Then we will,
Somehow,
Become different people,
Ones who conform.
But those of us,
Who resist your transformation,
Who fail to be reconstructed,
Must remain here,
In this place,
To be studied,
Probed,
Ridiculed,
Judged eternally by lesser minds,
Still trying to understand,
The depths,
To which,
We are able to go.
We scare you with our quiet power.
We scare you with our strength of purpose,
Even though you do not,
Comprehend our reason,
You fully comprehend,
Our reserves of soul.
And it is this,
That you wish,
To conquer.
But we are not enigma’s,
Designed to be broken.
We are the puzzles,
That you cannot,
Put back together,
No matter how carefully,
You take us apart,
We know where all our pieces belong,
But we will never tell you,
Our internal codes,
It is not our fault,
That you cannot decipher,
Our picture,
That you cannot see us whole,
So why must you insist,
On treating us,
As if it were .
