1. Is it really? Is it so? A far cry from beginning, a far distance from life led. Where now? In the depths of a life torn or broken? Where is it and how has it come to be so? A riddle and a far cry from the start. Hopefully and perhaps a far cry from the finish. But still much closer than it once was.

2. To speak in ways unknown to another. To love, to hope, to be, in ways unknown by any other. What to expect but live alone, exist alone, die alone? Wanting to be as is without the additions of a life caved in, surrounded by, closed in, sealed shut, boxed, barred, limited and bordered on all sides by those of the Other. What does it mean to be free, to live free, to die free of it all? Is it possible? Such things, such truths, such knowledge, they are a far cry. Indeed, a far fetched and distant cry.

3. So then how? And why, who, what, and where? What is the element being searched for? Is there a key? Is there a lock and door? Or guts flayed and gaping like a shark speared by harpoon? To be cleaned an eaten? To be stolen and sold? To be exploited and taken advantage of? Is it so? Those who know ask, "What is wrong with you?" As if there is some abyss between the two. As if the world is less valid, perhaps less human. As if the mind is less functional or less purposed. "What is wrong with you?" The answer is a far cry from it, indeed.

4. So here then, an utter disappoint, despair, and compromise. Cheat and thief, brat and broker of hurt and lies and wounds and such. Is it marvelous? Is it fanciful. Moving words in hopes that someone might hear, might see, might grasp the concept. "To find one of those denomination. To find one or two out there. Those who have seemed so non-existent, staunch, and stoic, still, and submerged. The schizophrenic, manic-depressive, control clinging, pedi suffering, abuse hoarding sort. The one who is lost, the one who is broken. The one who is needing but can't find anyone to give. Who, what, where and why are you? Is your mother gone? Is your family hurtful? Is your faith failing, and your life crumbling. Did you learn to live? Did you hear of your worth? Are you more than a maggot, a fly, some manure? The deep schism of inquiry separates mind from body, yet no one grasps the concept. "What is wrong with you?" They ask. "I don't know." Looking for some sort, even one. Where? Tis a far cry from indeed.

5. So then it is lost. Not knowing what to look for, nor knowing where to go. Not knowing where it started, nor anything about where to end. It has been sent to hunt but no one has disclosed what for. Only stunned, even confused. Lost in a drift. A far cry from what they've thought, a far cry from what they've hoped.

6. She never expounded upon where it should go, or what it should do. They never said, yes this or no that. There was never a qualification or an ultimatum. Accept what is, no option to bring about the ought. How can it be then, this and now? What ought is there? A far cry from what can be conjured, a far cry from what has come to be known. Apparently it exists, ought exists. Far be it from me. Tis a far cry indeed.

7.

Hope in all its luster and all its splendor may never be good enough.

Where can I get it? What does it look like?

...

Brushing back the curtains of life as it had once drapped.

The folds lay so cleanly, falling softly against the frame of what seems so picture perfect.

Peering through transparencies, the projection gives off light of an eerie quality.

Masking the dull and dreary
Blurring the sharp and dissonant
it is of what seems so marvelous and quaint

Every pondering canal screams away the time.

Stringing together piece by piece, a life of what seems so brilliantly orchestrated. Yea Life

Coloring in each canal one by one

Wondering on the wonderers and the wandering and the wanderers.

Deferring from the difference and the differance.

And again we are brushing
Again we are peering

Again it is masking and blurring and coloring

Again I am wondering and wandering and deferring
And again it is
of what seems...so picture perfect.

...

Hope in all its luster and all its splendor may never be good enough.

Where can I get it?
What does it look like?
It is of what seems so picture perfect

Not a poem or even a work so easily written. Not a moment so easily forgotten. Not a life so easily lived.

Where has it gone? As the ink flows from a faulty pen, dripping, leaking upon the flesh of its director. Life so oozes from a body so quickly and easily. The urge to exist, the drive to be free. The confines of life close in like a sledge hammer, tearing down the thick castle walls. One by one the bricks crumble and fall to the ground like the dead bodies and the dead hurts and the dead dreams.

Here we are taking it in, day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, second by fucking second. Here we are putting it out, day by day, week by week, month by month, and year by fucking year. Who can I be? Who can I get? Who can I take, NOTHING, NO ONE! No sweet smell of lovers lips, no soft touch of warm breath. Nothing! And here we are taking it in.

The lovely breeze of a day that seems so cold and distant. The color that seems dim, almost blank, a pale and pasty white. Opaque and matte like the plaster of Paris mold on each and every face of each and every passerby. The sun, whose warmth is not. Whose yellow rays are turned to ice. The cold gleam of platinum snow. Sharp and frozen, piercing the mind like a cold silver blade.

And to understand a day like this, we try, I try, you try, again and again. To fucking understand the day. To explain its ins and outs, to map the frontier of wild thoughts raging, throbbing, pulsating. To fill the crippling void, to surplant the mass of tyranny flowing from its very being. How do we feel about days like this? How do we live on days like this?

Life. On these shithole days of mass confusion and fierce destruction, is this life? And so I hope, I long, I yern to sit, to lay, to be within the arms of another. Another who says, "just be." To rest without the bullshit explanations and the fucking half-assed solutions. To be enthralled, to be engulfed in such a sensation. The overwhelming sense of mere existence and acceptance of it. Yea Life.

So I sit here hoping for seconds of silence. My skin crawling and body writhing with the urge to escape. I can not evade the surging grasp of social obligation. It tears into my brain like rusty nails would tear into the skin of a helpless newborn. Pale and bloodied I sit here. Wishing for silence, hoping to be apart from the Other. Wishing to be away, and to be void, and to be not. Hoping for an end, grasping for finality. Sitting here and tired. Tired of life with its quick fixes and trivial routine, tired of the screeching sound of this damn humanity trying to make it what we want. Tired of the overwhelming, and overcoming, and overtaking senses of fatal scrutiny. Tired.

Ha in all these days I say, "that's life."

Thus my readings have taken me into somewhat of a realization, however existential it may be. I've recently taken a liking to the writings of Martin Heidegger. I must point out that I do not believe his writings to be any type of Nazi endorsement whatsoever. As I begin to delve into his thought I find myself in what seems to be familiar territory. I thumb through these pages and can say that I have been exposed to his ideas a great deal. The bulk of exposure I owe to Prof. Axton, to which I also owe my interest in the business of philosophy altogether. Regardless, I can say that I have not come to understand such thought as Nihilistic by any means. To say that Heidegger is an existentialist is somewhat undercutting the project that he has attempted to uncover, but I believe he is on to something. I've found myself however rejecting any label that I come across, and simply saying that I am -Dasein- (literally means "Being-there"). However many scriptural principles I've managed to read into Heidegger, as I am interpreting what I have read by my own presuppositions I can be justified in doing so. For certainly scripture is the framework by which I am able to interpret anything at all. Regardless, my interaction with the writings of Martin Heidegger have so far been extremely enlightening. It is my hope that this will continue.

A dirty trick has been played. I don't know where it has come from nor where it has gone, nevertheless it has gotten the best of me and taken it all away. Recently these days have been long and hard, like crossing the pacific in a rowboat. I've realized several things that I know bear so much weight on who I am, and the more I understand the more I realize that emotions are not my friend. In fact I've realized that I don't want anything to do with them. I am uncertain of whether or not that is a bad thing, but it is the conclusion that I've come to realize over and over again. The wanderings of my mind have been tainted and at this moment I'm trapped in a Cartesian complex of ideas and doubts. Which seems all well and good until someone loses and eye. Regardless, life is tough. You have who you have for a moment and the next they are gone. You get what you get for a moment and then it's gone. You give what you have for a moment and then it's gone. Nothing lasts, nothing is constant, and nothing, and I do mean absolutely nothing, is dependable. My obligation to my Lord begs to say, BUT CHRIST! But my heart right now is in a knot and is struggling to say even that. This is the trouble I get in when my brain and I are left alone together. Whatever that may mean.