I am still found hunting in my dreams for answers why man is so contaminated; although they are like deep shadows in the woods, silent alertness to the figures that come and go—swift and softly they fly by me, no indiscretion. Sometimes I try to repel the advance of the old vintage sumptuous building of a heroic ending, knowing my real age is not my dream age—and this is impossible for me at times, to stick to reality, but it is offered freely—this heroic dream state, but I suppose even in the woods, these woods, my mind tells my subconscious tells me, now its chief pleasure is in a kind of an elegant ending—that’s how it should be, not how it is or will be, or was: why stick to reality, let’s go to the impossible.
You see, in reality, in the waking world—oh this is a long story but let me try, in the waking world, my chief please is perhaps in a kind of meditation, a conversation now and then with me, induced by the silence which I impose around me. It comes to be kind of a sport. And when back into my dream state if I wish, and I really don’t wish, but it comes up anyhow, I fight the boars in the woods, drive them out, slain by my wit and sword, dipped in fury, fire and wine. Then I come here to find paper and pen, and write these thoughts. Thoughts suggested by the dream world my dream world, and the daydreaming world, my daydreaming world and at times the real past, the physical night and day—it intertwines.
A fleet of thoughts, stock-still, I set into motion, they have wings and settle upon a transparent rock, lounging easily I can pick them up one and all, or one by one, and form a story, this story for instance, comes from some fragmented dreams I had last night; now that I have time in my old age to do so, when I was young, I had a low voice, no time to write as I do now, I was just passing though life, made it somehow to old age by some little folks from Venus, or was it Mars, a thousand priestesses protected me, surrounding my green hills inside that woods, from the enemy, the Syrians and the Jews and the Vietnamese, and the Chinese…and so on.
It is all like a play, life in the physical, even to a certain degree life in my dreams (without dreams we’d become dehydrated), it’s the free animation and attentiveness of the mind in the dream state, in the mind, my mind which has a track, a mote, a sunbeam, carried all the way from Venus to protect me, it is amusing to them to watch a young man turn old. This alone has its own deep solitudes, a goddess from another world hunting for a companion, in worlds that are crowed—not to get old with but to tell them it is time to say whatever you got to say.
It is all part of old age I suppose, it is like finding two friends you’ve always had, and never took the time to greet properly, or gave them the time of day, to search the halls of the mind, where they sneak into. Even sneak into the hidden libraries of your mind, as if it all was forbidden until now, until old age—trying to nibble within your mind before the irrevocable advance of death falls upon you, murmuring hanging thoughts of their own: how do I know this? Because I have asked, ‘Where did this silly thought come from?’
Here in my mind I can see Nero murdering his mother and brother, and he deserved to die, but he lived, but why? I pitied Rome, and I saw all the old people who were allowed to get old, and all the young people that were not, and I heard of death, it’s a word of irony, who has but a few friends—‘Sometimes,’ so he told me ‘I give a moment of hesitation, it’s all superficial, lazily eyes are melancholy; but once I tap at the door, there is no turning back.’ So whatever the case may be, old age is my friend: if you think of it, 160,000 people die a day in this world, perhaps over 100-billion have walked the earth, how many have been allowed to get old—a very low percentage I would think? If only Death would now roll out the scroll on this subject, I’d know, instead of guess, but I know if you live past sixty, you’re lucky, and past seventy, you’ve lived longer than King David, and if you make it to eighty or ninety, you are more than lucky, you are the exception, especially if you can think straight.
I suggested to Death, that he should lend it to me his scroll on how many got to be old: he shook his head right to left, that was a polite ‘no’ he even told me, ‘It’s not my property.’ I said, ‘I might ask at a later date.’ And guess what he said, ‘If you have any intentions to do so, do it now, it may be too late tomorrow for you,’ and I seemed to hear the words, ‘…curiosity killed the cat.’ What does he know that I don’t know? I don’t want to answer that question, nor ask him, perhaps one of the great gifts of God is not to know.
Outwardly unmoved I changed my thinking: to the old of Rome Empire which was spared, and then to Nero who was the result of false teachings by someone, perhaps Seneca; a brutal, voluptuary murderer—and emperor of Rome—who never got to get old, nor his mother or brother. But he was allowed to get raw and crude and narrow in his ways, but not old.
Somewhere along the line he became—himself—the whole of humanity, yes, Nero was all of that, perhaps likened to: Hitler, Napoleon, Stalin, Pol Pot, like to like, all these kind of dictators: they all would build a new world, according to their wills. All these murderers call upon the gods, those little gods that only live in their minds, to protect their humble, and victorious affairs: like Obama, he too, belongs to the same order of thinkers as Nero, although with a finer and perishable nature. It is a hatred of humanity, an intangible substance they can’t surmount, even if they conquered the whole world—like Alexander the Great, another murderer, and Hannibal, and Giangos Khan, Taberlane, or former president Johnson who was responsible for killing 56,000-Americans in the Vietnam war, sending 500,000-troops to keep the war machine moving in America, and the industry at full capacity.
It is easy to fill a regiment of thinkers like those I’ve mentioned above and place them throughout the world, like: Saddam Hussein, Nero, and Obama (who keeps the wars going on in the Middle East as if it is a Christmas Present for American Industry), and his kind, but of course this is not what they proclaim humanity wants but he has no choice, but they don’t believe in humanity—they are part of the unalterable conditions of life, they believe in themselves as little gods—and the fewer the better, so they can rule the more, and of course the philosophy they choose to live by: kill a thousand in war, without a blink of an eye, and call it, what you will: National Security, for the home of the brave, and they don’t believe in old age, not for humanity’s sake anyhow, and they hid behind solid brick white doors, they pray the stomachs of the many are weak or become weaker, for us to rule in our dreams and sleep, while they control the waking world. But again I must agree, I am one of the fortunate; I’ve been allowed to grow old, but only by the grace of God, not by those so called elected.