The Fog

The fog of life
Time.

No time to accomplish anything of merit

I feel the oppressive depression of time and its lack.
There’s nothing left to me
Or is there?

I awoke to an epiphany
I saw my malady
The absence of enough time to accomplish great things
I fight this every single day
I work through quicksand
The word “quicksand” is laughably descriptive
The answer drives my need to work harder
Smarter
Faster

Yet, in the end, there is nothing
There is only all the amzing creations left behind
Not in the world
But in my mind and heart
The ones I forsake along the way because I cannot manufacture time

Hunger eats at me
Desire flickers ever present in my soul
Yet neither gets quenched
Only sated momentarily
This is the nature of life, is it not?

The curse of life as well
So many feedings left to enjoy
Or to struggle for
So many loves to attain in which to revel
Or none

Intimacy whispers to my heart as I lie in bed
Searching for that one love
Love which heals
Forgives
Nurtures
Comforts
Understands

That love does not exist
Or its the grail
Clarity arrives with the full moon
Sounds like such a superstitious load of shit
Yet I see this
I feel this
I experience this

A rising of consciousness
Hidden away in unobserved memories
Imprinted on our lives despite our oblivious minds
Higher levels of clarity
A time to make things happen
A time to know
A time to seize and make our own
A time to grasp a tidbit more of who we are and why we’re here

Words of a crazed man?
Someone who writes his soul
Someone who explores possibilities
A man delving into possibilities again

Poetry’s a tract
A path
A trail blazed through words
Concepts
An openness to all
Sometimes labelled the universe
But so much more

Words become poor substitutes for the mind
The heart
The soul
The conceptualizations
Clarity
The concept of clarity
No, the reality of clarity
Outside the fog of the dream of life
Outside the confusing smoke/mist delivered daily in our corrupted universe
Yet clarity blossoms in the fog when we discover truths

The fog keeps us corralled.
Time limits our ambition
Or time fuses our ambition
Fuses time in the crackling fire of driven awareness

These words become an ethereal whistling through the graveyard
Footsteps padded by tiptoe strolling
Fearful others may read and think me mad
Hopeful others may read and understand
Fearful others my read and none actually get it
Hopeful that the prong of exploration may draw another nigh…

Use of old words and concepts pay homage to those who came before
Those who knew much more
The greatest deception of modern life is that we know more
This deception stands as our great undoing
Our greatest lie which we embrace with fervor

Those who passed before us knew more of life
We decorate our lives in baubles and trinkets of shallow ilk
We call these prizes technology
Technology’s lure rests in what I currently employ my mind, heart, soul and fingers with
A tool which cradles benefit
Yet we use this tool for so much less than we could

Why does speaking in poetic riddles appeal so much?
Because the essence of information I desire to deliver does come through the sentences and lines
Answers of truth lie between the lines
Words exist only as triggers
Road signs to the melancholies
The passions
The heartaches we cannot define
Words strike up a firing of synapses
Yet every single brain contains different perspectives
Therefore the words only capture brief strobe-like glimpses of what lies within us

Truth will always lie in the eye of the beholder
More so than beauty
For beauty plays at deception
Truth consistently and constantly awaits discovery

This meandering path of words must wind its way back to the fog
For the truths hidden in our life’s fog patiently stands immobile
Yet
Often when we discover one
We find it has moved from where we once thought it to be
But then we realize this truth either never existed but for our moment in time
Or it permeates all of life
Or swaths of life
Or miniscule aspects of life
All tied together in one experience
Or many experiences
Over the insanity of forever.

Could our time on earth be but a snippet of forever?
Could our time on earth be but a difficult dream?
Even in our glories our experience is fleeting.
That which we believe we possess truly owns us
But owns us more by what they withhold than what they deliver
For the more we grow attached to their deliverances
The less we search for truths and answers which never ever lie within our possessions

At times, I sprint through the fog
Especially in earlier days
I crashed into truths and got knocked on my ass
Never understanding them as anything more than barriers
Souls from the past discovered unlocking truths
We hide in our digital dreams
Our bread and circuses
Our folly of near constant distraction
Rather than explore and ponder our fog of life

I suppose my subconscious discovered many years ago what I now realize
I cannot attain my potential
Which does not mean I dive into apathy and surrender
But rally myself to another plane

Do you even see the fog?
Is the mist of your life the shiny call of the physical world and its delights?
I walk those areas as well at times
Yet in moments of clarity
Mist surrounds me
Counterintuitive, isn’t it?
I fathom there lies more to be discovered in the mists
Than the brightness of day could ever reveal

Horrors lie in the brightness of day
For everything in our world of light and sound
remains propped up by false foundations like abandoned movie sets
Used to keep us from our purpose

I stroll the night and love its wonder
For the time I spend in the shadows and mists
Deliver a nearness to where I discover and learn
The light of day contains the same truths
But the distance one must travel to get past the baubles and trinkets stands greater

Scientifically, the moment of awakening reveals our most creative moments in life
I sense the full moon affords us a clarity if we would simply pursue the connection
No science here
Simply an observation.
Not only of myself
But also my poor, demented mother
Lost in her own fog without a mind remaining to guide her.

Sadness is never in the words
Sadness comes from the trigger the words deliver.
Whether we like it or not, what we seek lies shrouded in the mists of eternity
We should feel honored and overwhelmed when we stroll these sacred mists
For we glimpse
Ever so slightly
Our underlying connection to forever…

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A couple quick notes on this meandering writing. I awoke to a sense of clarity and ambitious intent. I should have written immediately, but I allowed myself to be lured by a Netflix series titled “Glitch.” This is an Australian film and I am fascinated by the premise.

That said, this poem(?) rambles around a bit. I often do not publish such writing, but this one felt a bit different. I awoke to a realization of “downtroddenness” for want of a word that is not really a word. I’ve struggled for a few years with despondency. I feel everything I do is for naught.

Sounds like depression, doesn’t it? Even though I continue to write, I deny myself the pursuit of everything writing could be for myself. I am so busy taking care of others, I forsake the one thing which gives me a sense of connection to purpose.

Recognition of a problem is the first step to adjustment. I don’t want to say “correction” because everything in life is laid before us for our own lessons. At least this is what I believe. Therefore a “problem” is not to be corrected. Learning from the problem becomes the experience. The drive to move forward gets its momentum by the effort to understand and adjust based on what I learn.

So, while the above writing lacked some of the focus I generally desire, the journey of the writing itself was beneficial for me. Hopefully you were able to glean something of value for yourself as well.