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Philosophical poetry-should I pursue writing?
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(Sorry i haven't formatted, still testing the waters of writing.)
My mind at times makes it feel as though guilt is soaking into my brittle bones in an attempt to eat me alive. It swills through my marrow, swallowing up the unseen parts of me. My mind tells me I am deserving of it. Though my heart, it seems, sends a truer message, one i cannot fully accept regardless of my efforts. It whispers into my veins, "Do not forget.". Oh but I do, all the time I do. I forget about the pain and tragedy I have endured. I forget about the bruises almost as quickly as they heal. I then tell myself with a blank mind that I am deserving of this guilt, that I should let it have me as its meal. For when you abandon others, you also abandon yourself. But i am no longer that person, and I do wish to abandon them. How else shall I make space for my new self? The guilt coils around my throat at that thought. How selfish of me!
Leaving behind those i once loved in an endeavor to reforge mine own self. Do not forget, it whispers. Right. Am I to feel shame and guilt for playing the part of the phoenix in my life? I alone rose from the flames of my abuse, stronger and wiser than I'd imagined I ever could. Did the phoenix feel the same after it rose and fled from those who'd laid flame to it? Did it return and forgive, embracing those same souls who vowed never to change their ways? I would say that perhaps it did not. No, in fact I'd like to believe it never turned to face that direction again, always resenting eastward. Perhaps it had no resentment at all. Perhaps the thought of those souls never once even occurred to it. Fanciful to think a creature so mystical and capable would have no conscience or emotion, however misplaced.
Perhaps that is the fantasy, not the creature itself nor its ability to endure and ressurect, but to rise above emotion and conscience itself. To feel little of human emotion and responsibility. Yes, for that is what we all dream of. At least those of us who have seen the darker sides of it anyway. We wish and we dream of a life unburdened by harsh feelings and thoughts. Thoughts I find myself lost in all too often. Thoughts mainly centered around fairness and justice. Is it fair that I shall never return to the family that has branded me with hatred and harshness? Is it fair that I feel a responsibility towards them when they've never shared that sentiment? But what is fairness and where does it belong, to whom does it belong? For every corner I turn seems to be shrouded in unfairness. Am I deserving of this too? I've mostly walked the path of a true heart in my life, does that earn me justice? I'd like to believe so, even then what is justice, and what is a true heart? Who am I to measure it? Does it darken my heart to think myself deserving? Am I selfish for seeking the path to a better life for myself? Why must I have such intellect to allow me to debate it logically? Why can I not be daft or uncaring and allow the tide of life to wash me where it chooses? I often feel as though my mind is the force of an ancestral reckoning. My family has strayed too far for far too long from the paths of truth and humanity. I pay the price through my suffering and remorse for redirecting our future. Though I am not sure i can succeed in even that task. Will i be capable of lifting us up when so many have planted their feet in the wild ground they tread upon? How is it that I, with the least sway, have been tasked with such?
If It were that they did not scoff and laugh in my face I'd have been successful many years ago. But what other response should you receive from a fish when offering them air? For that is how it feels, wildly impossible and laughably unrealistic. Is it ego or intellect that tells me they are not worthy? Am I dramatic or accurate in my comparison? Why is it that I am filled with a vast understanding of many things, yet I seem to have only questions? I nearly think myself a philosopher, endlessly seeking answers that i do not know, only to dissect them and be left with more questions than before. Fickle is reality and life. Much like attempting to strangle an oiled snake. If one could only shut the door to emotion, would they feel a freedom unfelt by any before?
If only I could strip from my being these horrid feelings that weigh me down so.
Alas to feel is to be and to be is to exist, and what joy one can feel in existence!
For that has been what drives me in my pursuit of life and of knowledge. The joy of simply comprehending all that is and has been and will be, as well as the fact that none of it, yet all of it, is true. How beautiful life is when you allow yourself to embrace its contradicting nature! How horrendous it can look when you attempt to make it perfectly clear. The truth lies in a paradox, where all that is true is equally untrue. I suppose it can be said that life and perhaps knowledge are quite the conundrum in understanding. Both of which are the most uselessly useful pursuits of man. We live to question, and we die to answer.
Perhaps that is why my heart still beats in my chest, and my blood still stirs in my veins. Will my nature to question keep me alive long past my expiration? Perhaps in spirit. Though, does a spirit remain if no one remembers it existed at all? Ah, is that not another great pursuit of mankind? To be remembered? Many have spent their lives dying to live on in spirit, erecting great statues of themselves, scribing their names into history through whatever force they could manage. What have they gained? Do their spirits linger or awaken when someone living utters their name? Perhaps yes, but also no, both are true. Such is the conundrum. It does make one wonder and question. That is the beauty of life, never truly knowing and always guessing. Many waste time arguing their stance without ever pondering the possibility of the opposing stance.
This is ignorance, for both are true and correct, yet both are false and incorrect. They simply are, as in they exist. For no man nor woman knows the truth of the world nor the universe nor the live it houses. It is simply impossible for us to grasp the ungraspable.
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