Maybe the reason that everyone thinks that there's so much wrong with the
world is because we expect everything to be right. It's a lot esier to
notice if something is out of place than to recognize that it belongs.
There is a general concensus of convormity in this wonderful nation of
ours. Things are respected because they "found their nitch". But what
about those still left searching. The tireless wanterers or the ones who
got left behind. People say, "Grow up". If they mean, "slow down", I'm
not about to heed that warning. I realize that seasons change, and people
change, but I hope that I'll never lose my own sense of earch and desire
for new experience.
I personally am interested in those that upset stasis. The deviants of
society. Devient just meaning that they are different, not the usual
negaitve connotaition that is attatched to the word "Deviant". These
deviants are those that excite change. They recognize that confusion is
the most natural state, because we live in a World that by definition is
changing all the time. Trees grow and die. Things are here one minute
and gone the next. Nietzche said, "Social advancement is made possible by
those at the bottom of society." I feel these people make advancements
because they don't live by societies rules, they are by definition
deviants. Which is the very heart of their intrigue.
These wonderful differences, these accents and foregn tongues spoken by
those with the same language, are what make life interesting.
Perils of the Small Hours
When life burns low, as the fire in the grate
And all the evenings books are read
I sit alone save for the dead
And the lovers I have grown to hate
But all at once the narrow gloom
of hatred and despair expands
In tenderness. A thought stretches hands
To welcome to the midnight room
Another presence, a memory
Of how last year in the sunlit field
Laughing you suddenly revealed
Beauty in immortality
For so it is, a geture strips
Life bare of all it's make believe
All unprepared we may recieve
Our casual apocalypse
Sheer beauty you seemed then to stir
Unbodied soul, soul sleeps tonight
And love comes diming spirit's sight
When body plays interpreter.
