The Riddle of Us

To be able to write Is something of a pleasure. Satisfying to oneself and hopefully pleasing to others. Being free to make a stand. Freeing the mind of it's prison bars. The iron bar of guilt. The iron bar of passion. The one of love. The one of propriety. Even the iron bar of freedom itself. All arranged across the out look of our lives. For if we had freedom of the absolute kind. What would there be To challenge the mind? To excel it. Open it. That is not to say we should be clasped in irons for all time. Imagine spending an age from woods to city and back again. Chained so close to the water fall of knowledge yet be unable to taste it. Only able to yearn yet remain ignorant. Our writings are the footnotes Of our life stories. The expression of our innermost feelings. Or of our wanting comprehension of what we do not understand. Or, indeed, not care to know. Or what we'd like to think that we care not to know. But our human nature... It Fights us. And easily defeats us. Sometimes being defeated can benefit us more. Our being is the sand On the shore of our experience. And we can try and shape it how we please, But experience and event may well wash it all way and shape it as to their specification. No amount of frustrated weeping will persuade them different. So we can do none, But write and scrawl and scribble. To vent our frustration and wonder At the incessant riddle That is us.