Chaos

Achingly true, words of my mantra, is the turmoil found in those words.  Absurd to think that my own definitions would supersede conventional thought, wisdom or the irreverent logic of mind.  My mind wandering, a waste in the whatness of doing, lacking the actions to correspond with successful completions of self.  The other trapped in a mire of constant reflection, self pity and neglect of the will, bound to itself and adrift.  I want to tear at it, like a trailing bandage, open the wound to reveal the sickness of hope, belief and self-doubt.  These things, which are self wrought, so says the mind, casting about for a hook to catch upon will not feed the soul.  Nor does the path or skein of fate offer to enliven or enlighten the soul.  Fetching, says the other, is the way of convention, servitude at cost.  Merchandise before oneself that has no currency except by faining the right compass direction, stroking it with dull flattery.  It is not so different; only the outer shell is confused.  There is no promise of singularity but expectations uncreative, and common for the mind, that mind bent to its own designs, its own way of viewing the world.  I can walk around this spot, see it for what it is, see the longing, the need, casting about beyond my reach to fabled knights on dark horses, crenelated caves of frozen marrow that had been sucked from the other lifeless husks before me.  I soon find my own self lost, in a forest of trees, they bend to let me pass, I can hear them whispering, laughing as they see what I cannot.  A conflagration has come up to test my own fire, that being lost to the other mind, well away from here, trapped in a clay pot sealed to the outside, smothering and unable to relight itself is where it shall be found, unsatisfied embers of questionable life.  So the work goes undone, yet fantastic ideas and promises abound, not seeing a start or a finish.  Hand wringing, the only exercise destined to be the final act of it before I turn to commune, pouncing on the hope, yet again for a word, a thought that can bring me back, but all I hear is a faint whispering of indifference.