The Piecemeal Man (abmann) wrote,
The Piecemeal Man
abmann

  • Mood:

Molding.

As I regress to a colorless existence, I disavow knowledge of te distance I have come. It is long and bright, but the way ahead is obscured by my hands. I would see, but that incites anger, fury, wrath - all emotions that inevitably end is dissolution of myself. Losing myself to these passions would destroy the name of the world. That, with forces like the wind would dissolve the alloy of humanity. They, unaware, would repond in kind and rise up to strike at God as he turns his back to live an eighth day. This is the scorn washing over, a red pool darkening and multiplying layers. We swim here, live here. We exist in it, refuse of the world. Our place is a singularity of emotion, a distortion in the rest of the fabric - the fabric out There - the turns an unwoven eye away. Were we to claw, harder and faster than we do know, one day would would unravel it all. We would return God's attention to his cesspool and he may fix it. That would be fate, turning our lives around in sight of Creator. Events will happen for a reason. Good and evil will meld in an implosion of free will - for what fate leaves room for will? If there is reason to madness, woven chaos, freakish nature, then there is guidance. Where there is expected happenstance, no circumstantial occurances, there is no will. Now becomes the instantaneous expression of free will and tormented determinism. The trickling moment before we act is the pretender to free will's throne.
This is Black and White becoming gray.

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