Edge Lord

Soul, If I told you that I loved you, would you believe me? I think a poet once said, "A man always loves his soul; he must." And I, perhaps for lack of an imagination, can't imagine a man who doesn't love his soul.  But I will that I would only ever say what I know is true—better that my actions take the place of my voice. My woven words are only worth their weight in gold.  And where are you now, Soul? Dancing among Plato's forms? Which virtue would you test the limits of next? I don't suppose you will settle for this century's dream. You would rather agonize yourself in a game, pitting the future with the past. But I've never been clever at games; I was a clutz on the field. Rather, let's walk uphill, together. 

Much of my pain and disappointment has stemmed from my expectation. I expected to receive much from the world on the account of who I am—whatever that may be. I saw people with wealth, and I thought I deserved that same wealth; when I saw that the path to wealth crossed decades and generations, I came to resent wealth and the wealthy for many of the wealthy did not need to cross the violent and vast river of trial-and-time.  I grew resentful, fearful, and hesitant as time passed—feeling as if I was trapped in a devious mechanism whose purpose was to drain my life and soul to sustain the livelihoods of those that stood on the shoulders of generations. I saw that I was a man living in the shadows of vampiric titans and kniving gods. I attempted to brush away this image as being the result of bruised and temporarily wounded ego, but my heart told me that this was the truth: the world is a tragic place for a tiny man who dares to look up with open eyes.  Regardless, I sense the need-and-ca

The substance has grown excessively hot.  It appears in the form of a red-hot metal orb. The orb calls to be quenched. I sense the need to pour  the-water-which-flows-along-conspicuous-paths  on the orb. This water is water that flows along conspicuous paths; it flows in the direction it deems appropriate, spreading like branches and roots against the spirit of gravity . The orb has been quenched. What happens next remains to unfold.