My Too (Many) Cents

A cold hard smack.  And I landed right on the ground. I grumbled and turned to look upwards into the expanse of the night.  Or what I could see of it trapped within a concrete cage.  There was a rememberance of a dream that was quite forgotten. It irritated me because I could not quite remember.  so I went back into the world. slumbering through what she had woken me up to.  A bundle of money sat in a jar.  It glowed profusely with an aura of others' illusion. Of blood, sweat and tears. An autocratic monarch that had ruled their lives.  And yet when they came to it, it still ignited in them that subtle smirk of power.  The kind that makes even the most sensitive embrace, rape.  There is simply no alternative to this they had said.  man's gotta make his bread.  And in my cortisol filled reverie through the thronging heart of samsara.  I was inclined to agree.  But she reached out to me again. On a monsoon night.  The t...

 An aphorism is the most pretentious form of writing. Except for every other form.  There is a certain rhythm to the internal tone with which a paragraph is written. A sense of song and improvisation as these words leave the tip of my metaphorical tongue.  Today, I don't really know what I want to write. I do have a why, a spark of inspiration driven forth by some conversations to brew into a thunderstorm that demands articulation.  But I don't really care about being incisive with my writing.  To probe into the depths of humanity's deepest slumbers.  Rather, I have been inspired to be -  ignorance today. To play with resistance.  The iceberg of my thoughts has long since been submerged into a water of the deepest spiritual garble.  Metaphors that are extremely powerful, that come straight from the void.  But. But. I don't like them.  When I speak them through the voice of a reigning monarch instead of a Digonesian rebel who has gi...