On the Wings of Hope : Prose

Philosophy died - it died the day of own birth. A spawn of mind and human nonsense, never it was capable to grant this true vital feeling of joy and completeness, fullness and self-realization, given by creativity. Hostages of own mind became traitors of conscience. A soap bubble has been inflated with hypocrisy and lies to yourself - yet this bubble has almost burst, but you still haven’t learned how to love … only how to think of that.

Time and again new fabrications and philosophical concepts visit your uneasy minds, and you possess no forces to oppose this chaotic music - you have been listening to it for all your life, and from time to time you even try to write down its notes. Over and over again you keep running by the same circle, and are unable to behold all futility of own ways. Your philosophy of life became the strongest anesthetizing from its ever-growing cacophony. Your mind became sick of self-deception.

In a vain hope you believe that it’s possible to build a society of common prosperity outside, continuing to ruin yourself inside. As if it was ever possible to make a paradise, living daily in a hell of own prejudices! You have forgotten how to live - and mind of yours became the only unique playground. You have forgotten how to love - and love of yours constantly transforms into hatred. You have forgotten yourselves original and accepted fancy dresses, imposed to you, having become clowns instead of men. Eternally unsatisfied and ill from feeling of own importance, you pass by sleeping ones, similar to you day by day without noticing … and those, who take responsibility to wake you, invariably become your worst enemies. Yet there is only one true enemy exists - and that one is you.

You have forgotten yourself original and fastened false masks of self-importance and common respect. As though the dead ones could respect the dead ones! You have selected a road straight into cemetery, having started dying instead of reviving every instant. You have chosen worthless philosophy. You have preferred false values - and they have preferred to destroy you whole. The price for masks simply rises too high sometimes … and you fall too low, having put them on. You have forgotten whence you have come. You have no idea of where you are going. How can you hope for the joy of travel mentioned then? A penal servitude for you it has become, though you will never admit.

Painfully it’s for you to recognize banefullness of your ways, for the ego opposes that and the memory of past rises on that. But razed will be the temple of false knowledge, and new one will be built upon. And the ash will your philosophy become, and tears will be a river. The blood of your spirit will spill in the river mentioned, making it red those days. The sparkling blade of uniform Truth everyone will stick into himself independently, thus splitting webs of false personal truths. Painfully will you cry those days. But whether a revival without crucifixion is ever possible?

No philosophies do I possess to give you for consolation, for I cannot have any. How can I grant you an entire world if you already have one inside, though cannot see that treasure mentioned due to own blindness philosophic?

Whether a river possesses a philosophy, I wonder? A true existence it has become, part of a world inseparable. How argue will you with river whispering and spreading, and for what purpose answers from it will you demand? A silent song of its whispering - whether it’s not an answer already? Never it’s possible to argue with a river, yet only spoil its water can you try with dirt own, having been for years collected. Yet only a dam can you try to build, but waters of river mentioned will find new ways, bypassing those obstacles of yours. Like a river the uniform truth will be, from a smallest stream being born first and washing off everything in a world’s flood further. And whether its coasts will be limited, I wonder?

No philosophies for you I have on me, for in a fire of own transformation they are being burned, for a bird to have a chance to take off from a cage previous. And when a bird of spirit flies to a freedom outside - the entire sky you are granted from now on.

02.06.2011

Plant louse

The Plant Louse gradually and unstoppably crept downhill a mountain.

The wind was blowing into her face, howling and as if begging to stop, the sun was mercilessly scorching her back, which has already become covered in scabs, here and there all of a sudden some holes-hollows of unknown origin were popping up. But she confidently continued her journey downwards – for there on the lowland, as it seemed, a paradise of eternal and lazy pleasure has been awaiting her. Her impetuous mind drove and pushed her forward – there, to the undiscovered downhill distances – and, methodically moving her legs, she obeyed her master and lord remorselessly.