We cannot look into the future without seeing ourselves reflected
back . . . our visage rippled inside a bigger picture painted on
the water’s surface. To measure time incrementally by the
division of hours and minutes, we add and subtract ourselves to
and from the equation like mad mathematicians seeking to balance
everything that remains. We are more than the sum of all things.
Our environment, our thoughts, our actions . . . we are more than
many have supposed.
In silent circumspection we sit with thoughts that span the distance
from nothing to infinity. Between these two points we attempt to
draw the straightest possible line and find it resembles a circle.
We are builders of houses and cities and wars, construction workers
laying roads over which generations to come will travel and take
for granted; insomuch as we assume the day will return after the
darkness. Our greatest works, in the end, are only artifacts to
be found by explorers born long after we have died. Perhaps it is
vain to think that they will even look, and if they do, will what
they find be worth their search?
Ancient peoples long since perished, having left the best of themselves
for our generation to find, present our future along with their
past. Dust, rocks, and bones piled into small, separated dunes through
which some interested party sifts with brushes and combs, searching
for answers buried in questions asked yesterday. What will they
find and surmise about us?
Yesterday can not answer the questions of our today, save the
patterns and paths which our father’s have laid and walked
like dogs tethered to leashes . . . and these are not worth walking.
We need higher paths trod over the up-grown grass of sacred and
higher grounds. Our generation needs another level of explorers;
those seeking within.
Uncommon in the sense of those aware; for rarely is an awake listener
given ears to hear the sound of their own words. Truly, we do nothing
of ourselves. Only with guided eyes and discerning minds do we gather
the marrow of this life, without these we are merely chewing the
fat. Uncommon is the sense of these that understand.
Common thoughts form common words and conversation becomes a verbal
tennis match . . . where the subject is the ball and volleyed from
side to side by players fighting to keep it out of their court.
Striving to make that next point and score in the eyes of judges
and spectators alike. Sad is our condition when governed by fear,
and more commonly than not, we are afraid.
The foundation of American society has been laid upon paper, and
our traditions based on rules that make the least amount of sense
for the majority of people, and the most money for a few. And though
these metaphysical chains have greatly improved, servitude by default
seems to be our new modus operandi.
There is a machine that was built by men, which dispenses needs
wrapped in plastic for a nominal monthly fee. The machine was designed
to fulfill the desires of men in exchange for their freewill. Men
feed the machine their hours, their energy, and their thoughts,
in order that they may purchase things the machine creates. Twenty-four
hours a day the machine runs and never sleeps; thus men must run
and never sleep to keep pace with the machine they run and the machine
that runs them. All men serve the machine, but the machine serves
not all men equally. For some, monthly it spits millions, while
for others it spits only hundreds; but upon everyone it spits just
enough to make it worthwhile to keep the machine running. Without
men the machine wouldn’t run . . . without the machine, men
wouldn’t have to; one feeds the other and both have become
sick.
Uncommon men and women will populate the world remaining; after
Wormwood pays its visit and buries our technology beneath the surface
of a water we can not drink. At times, I think I see its light shinning
in the heavens, approaching closer every day, as we unknowingly
settle into places that will not exist after Wormwood hits; as we
take for granted the current order of things, assuming tomorrow
will follow today. Uncommon is the sense of these that see prophecy
unfolding . . . line by line, losing not one letter until all be
fulfilled.
Uncommon thoughts flow like water into the mind of uncommon men
and women. Each having their own visions, each seeing according
to their understanding, each speaking in a language original to
their spirit. These are listeners . . . each given ears to hear
and eyes to see the words and images dictated by conscience. No
committee ever votes, nor has any need to vote on the dictates of
conscience. The heart inherently knows all that the mind can understand;
and if a man is able to hear his own conscience . . . to what man
has he any need of listening?
The world revolves around our thoughts. All things therein begin
and outwardly come to be through energy projected. Nothing occurs
without purpose, nothing exists without reason, and truly, there
is no such thing as luck. For seasons and years, we’ve built
our lives upon foundations made of sand and now the tides are turning
to wash away the grains, one by one. Our lives are folding beneath
the weight of all these things that we carry, all of these secrets
we keep, and all of the little lies we tell intentionally to cover
the darkness in our hearts; too many of us are in league with the
Devil . . . who deals in credit, never cash, and when our ransom
is required we seek to void the contract by asking for more. No
coincidence exists in a world responsive to thought, nor can it;
for all things play a part in creating a reality ever-changing.
Who shall we blame for our own disarray? Who will be named as our
next scapegoat?
Our mousetrap economy is baited with freedom and the mice we call
men are subtly lured by the idea of building a better mousetrap.
Too many consciously choose to chase the cheese, but before they
ever receive even one taste . . . the hinge will instantly unlatch
and snap their spineless backs in twain. Uncommon is the sense of
those that know in advance that the cheese is rotten, and not nearly
worth the pain of a broken back.
The machine is self-perpetuating and spins in countless revolutions
per minute. The naked eyes are unable to see that every twenty-fifth
frame contains images of submissive routines that turn people into
sheep grazing on the green, green grass of money. Those aware are
forced to lend themselves to that which they condemn, or starve
to death in opposition. The machine is prejudice against those against
it; all supporters are rewarded with proverbial pats on the back
and large chunks of un-cut cheddar.
Uncommon is the sense of this last generation. Restless and reckless
youth mixed with ageless wisdom collectively understood through
the most uncommon sense: Intuition. These are readers of the living
book, each writing their verse into pages inspired by the source
of all words. From these, nothing is hidden, nor can it be; for
insight and vision to these are given . . . along with the ear and
tongue of the learned. These ‘take no thought for what they
say.’ These ‘speak what they ought, not what they should.’
Uncommon is the sense of these following guides higher than themselves.
Uncommon days and events linger on our horizon, the dawn of former
days makes its way across our crowded skyline. We’re traveling
back to a time when life was lived inside the mystery and magic
of each moment; where we willingly exchange the catastrophe of ‘having’,
for the simplicity of ‘being’. Uncommon are those willing
to trade their things, for their thoughts, and blessed are they
who succeed.
Common men and women answer the questions ask of them; uncommon
are they who question for themselves. The majority is made of men
and women intelligently answering the wrong questions, misleading
themselves with information accurate only within a paradigm that
is not accurate. We understand how to penetrate the atmosphere and
build stations in space, but we can’t figure out how eliminate
homelessness. We’ve mapped every gene in the human DNA code
and still we are unable to cure the common cold. We’re able
to measure and understand every effect, yet, are seemingly incapable
of discerning even one cause. We answer questions proposed, rather
than questioning the answers we’re given.
More commonly than not, we’re being watched by men with
instruments and motivations incongruent to any ‘land of the
free’ and we are observed and tracked in ways more common
than many wish to believe. Increasingly subtle are the methods of
our incarceration.
The machine demands loyalty. Servants and subjects are daily required
to pay homage to The Neon Calf, as well as bare its barcode mark
in their wallet before they can buy bread. ‘No man may buy
or sell without the mark.’ not even Aldous Huxley thought
it would go this far; all imagination falls short of conceiving
such a monstrous dichotomy as a system where peasants must pay for
their right to work like a slave . . . while pretending to be free.
More and more people are finding themselves locked into a system
they do not support, confined inside a paradigm that is a prison,
or chained to an assembly line producing items that make only money
for someone else. Three of every one-hundred men are aware of what
underlies this side-show parade of progress and technology; three
percent aware enough to smell the bodies burning inside ovens built
by the other ninety-seven percent of us.
The machine moves at a pace pre-planned and organized by forces
of efficiency. Men must accept the machine as their master before
it will provide for their needs; and even then it can only dispense
that which men feed it, and no faster than the program allows. Electricity
is a demon---artificial lightning in a box that allows demonic forces
to come to life and imitate God. Neon monsters eating us alive,
feeding on our appetite for convenience. The blood in our veins
lubricates the wheels that spin this system full speed ahead . .
. toward obliteration. The price of progress will always be: One
Soul; never less, for even the best of men will eventually succumb
to the ideology of hunger.
The machine is progress, and progress is the machine we use to
plant our fields and raise our children, while digital hallucinations
designed to deceive our mind with numbers are arranged in the greatest
possible way to confine human beings into boxes. The machine will
not stop until each of us is securely labeled, stamped, classed,
and neatly filed away in our boxes made of either cardboard or pine.
Uncommon is the sense of those with eyes to see the Mystery of
Life through the Charade of living---whose vision is sustained by
inner sight, not eyes deceived by material reality.
uncommon sense
It is an uncommon sense
but everyone has it; for some
it sleeps beneath
the surface of consciousness
dormant and waiting
to awaken; others aware
have yet to develop it.
For some it has become routine,
but everyone has it.
It makes education irrelevant
and information unnecessary;
it allows one to see
the end of the matter
immediately without
need of understanding
the how or the why.
It leaves one knowing only
that this is the way it is.
It is an uncommon sense
that allows one’s heart
to identify the primary cause
of any effect measured
by the eyes.
It is an uncommon sense
and with it come glimpses
of the other world–where
locality is relative to awareness.
Uncommon sense permits sight
of things intended to be hidden:
motivations and stories
well or horribly written;
indeed, all things concealed
are revealed to one with this
uncommon sense.
Children have it
perfectly developed,
before we force them to forget
this gift of discernment;
before we teach them
to pretend its presence
is imaginary and only things
we can see with our eyes
are real.
It is an uncommon sense
typical to animals, whose
senses are multiplied
by factors of purpose; sometimes,
I feel they are more attuned
than us.
It is an uncommon sense,
an awareness rising
in each and every mind,
collectively forming
a new breed of travelers
on the frontier of Spirit,
and as the critical mass
draws nearer and nearer
to outnumbering those
unaware, the world
in one day will just
up and decide to change
itself.
