The cultural landscapes of the world today are much like continental shifts. The original continent, known as “Pangaea,” rose from the ocean as a single uniform mass. The processes of time, erosion, volcanism, and gravitational forces eventually fractured Pangaea in several areas, sending the pieces adrift in all directions.
Here we sit today, galvanized by cultural and continental division. In a sense, the human species is no more connected than the continent of Pangea. Not far behind, our ancestors also set out on their own continental divide and drift, and, in effect, genetically altering future generations of their offspring through environmental acclimation. The people today are as different as the continental regions their ancestors settled on. Heliocentric determinism racially defined our species based on exposure to, and distance from, the sun. Those that settled nearest the equator, adapted darker shades of skin pigmentation than others further removed in relation and/or exposure to our sun. Colder regions dawned vastly different versions of our species with pale skin and unique body hair densities to shield against freezing conditions.
I cannot help but reflect upon the universal consistencies, fluid but bound, in a vortex, spiraling out – into this fractal expansion. From the atom to the galactic front. Hurling through the space-time continuum, we are the very die cast by probability. And, from probability, our species’ propensity for conflict is as evident today as it has ever been. As the planet builds to a flashpoint with each of our seven billion sets of hands awkwardly scribing in the sum of our ignorance. Across the planet, egocentrism urges on the notion that violence may be an unsurpassable obstruction to peaceful coexistence. Cross-culturally, humans have shown that they are the most prolific and ardent conspecific killer to ever arise from the depths of life’s potential. Out of a seemingly limitless labyrinth of choice, the majority repeat patterns of destruction resulting in a moral erosion – ever outshining any other conflict in existence. We kill, separate, hate, destroy, waste, take, and consume with a tone of vampirism. Chaos seems to pull us into its gravitational fields and currents of a looming cultural abyss. Archaic systems of spiritual guidance and political governance are often applied in place of progress, and compassion has become an endangered enlightenment only preserved by the tears of those who care to listen to the wisdom of their hearts. Let my tears be counted among them. Let my eyes not weaken as I continuously choose to clear and tune my vision. I will count each dove that falls and each injustice my heart will carry as my own. If I can bear it, let me hold the suffering upon my back. Let me not call for help or cast guilt ridden stones. This is my choice because it is the conceit, the gluttony, and the measure of an intelligent heart.
If this condition of the world is woven in the acclaimed plan of any cultural god or gods, they are gods to the negligent and equally slain by a heart brandishing intelligence. Robbed, are these old high path steps, and found devoid of any relevance. Bow in reverence to the ruins of cultures time has forsaken and lost and be consumed be the height of self deceit. These false idols will continually finance war and cut its adherents from herds of the apathetic masses of the weak. The higher path’s beauty and peace frail hearts and minds will claim to know by their ancient master’s preach, but have no more understanding of a light by existing in the dark of shadow. Many will begin this trek, only to retreat in fear. Attracted to the light they once sought to know, but blinded are the eyes that have not been enlightened by their tears. Self centricity is the Sifu of the dumb heart – barred from the high roads, passing too hurredly to bear its beauty, and peace, to the deaf – is rendered silent. Fervently, many winding masses seek, but the true light dims to those barren of a heart’s tears, like a mirage in a desert or a ghost of time. The eye of this needle may be forever narrowing in its closing for those afraid of what is within. A calloused heart is a crippling self infliction, and traveled by billions – apathetic rote practice of empty teaching. See this torch held, and not lost in following. Chasing personal gods lay bare their pursuit as a selfish wish in signs only ever echoed back by the author’s reflection among the chasm called by us, universe, whilst the hand shake the pen in the weary trifling.
Scribbled lines mar the message as knots only untangled by the far reach. Pulls from within ring tones of truth, and your heart may break, yet strength it flexes in the heal. The path shirks the weak, as the legend of its rare passengers is seen. And…I will fear no evil because the strongest hearts align with me. See yourself in another and lift the illusory mirror smoke magic. Rise and stand at the foot of this mountain, lest, in your heart, you see a mad man. Anger begot compassion in tilting the heart’s table, and the mind begot a word in this refraction. If this god is love, beware any hell that fallacies teach – or, this path lose any passage rite in fiction and fable.
Hatched from the extrapolated vibrations sounded by the hums of chaos – We are the anomalies of sentience. Beneath the atomic glue that engages us into this spiraling structure, our faces are the shape and product of chaos. From possibility, to potential, to probable, and onto algorithmic determinism – the heart each have written is bound to form. Stand strong as the intelligence of hearts begins to feel, else escape, a turned back, returning to the card house of fear.