The azure dawn light tinges my blinds, and birds are chirping. To be fair, I know they did not sleep, as neither did I. I waited and sat, minding my own trifles, puttering at tiny little tasks, and bleaching issues online by way of words. A page below the one I write upon now is convulsing. Bad writer.
If I had to, I’d say the morning tastes of lime, but probably it is actually an unripe orange. Bitter thoughts scream, as wind does as it makes windows scream, when they aren’t shut tight. The venting holes let any decent attempt to be heard outside them be realized. And it’s birds. Right now there’s a musical quality to it, as they bicker and sing.
When such creatures as these die their little deaths, what becomes of the natural birdsong that accompanied their life? There’s ruminations to behold, when we ask, (even in soft thoughts), what a purpose is. We already know that there is life. What a broken concept to pitch us all, that it must have “purpose”, as well.
Within my mind once again, I do what the soul says, is to “choose”. But lately that means something different. To be free. Do you want to be free? From what? To do what?
There is a sad irony in being in a state of choice, or choosing. Reasons for everything spoil our happiness in achieving, and freedom in all its sacredness. Freedom is sacred because it is temporary. What remains when I really push down the throttle on a thought like this?
The “choice” pot bubbles, and as it goes on for enough time, boiling down to a residue, you see form and shapes. An old saying says the same concept I am trying to convey: “even a broken clock tells the right time at least once a day.” (If it is analog, it does so, twice).
This is the point I have picked to expound! You can choose to be wrong, but for how long?
Sometimes, by way of natural observing, I interpret life as cursed. Sometimes, I’m right, but that’s not what I am strictly talking about. Observe the broken clock and look at human chaos. On returning to the familiar world this way, you can see that rough concept unfolding, as it spins into effect. Be right: use your recognition of traditional means to erect a monolith of recognizable authority, or else you can be wrong and unpredictable. Build whatever you want for little reason.
But of course we are only as unpredictable as the number of options we have, and the pattern to which we select them. In a sense, even the worst decisions of ours are right, sometimes. Just like someone very slowly accomplishing a task, all you must do is wait.
So, choices? Freedom? My bet is these are flawed concepts we employ. We get gut reactions or mental/physical pleasure when we consider them. I’ll suggest and posit, that such concepts enter and remain there, to gain flesh and fulfillment for ourselves. It all takes place in a human mind, within the reality of a hostile universe, that seems cold to the touch.
Be warm, then, and let people make mistakes. They will only be wrong for however long it takes them to come to terms with the finite nature of all things. Or they shall be buried by time and forgotten. A choice made with or without our consent.
Death is proof of logic. It is the eternal monarch of history and future. We have no say in the matter.
The Humble Rock Dove 