Sunday
remembering at 12:58 a.m. on 2003-08-25
Remember this glass, that sive the blurred lines of my eyes, once removed...the lines are still real, even when the mind cannot understand.
Belief
Such a potently sticky word.
We believe in love. We believe in hate. In God, in the Devil. In Heaven and Hell. We shape our lives, our fears, our abilities, by the predetermined fixtures.
Words of our ancestors, written by the candle light. The man who died, smothering in his own fears, is dead still, but now we turn the pages of his remains, reverently.
A midnight confession. Inadequacies and fear of independence of the mind...
One more page scribed in the darkness. One more voice to teach another.
What is faith?
What is belief?
So certain are we, that we live and die by what we are told. What we are taught. Plugged into our emotions from birth, so much like a machine, that when we begin to question our will, we question our functionality, instead.
Who is the maker?
Who is the silencer?
Who is my savior?
In the transitional dark, in the silence, all that seems to speak, is the echo of my awakening.
never was � never will be
