Living in a slipstream.

I remember the memory of a smell in a darkened wood furniture, a sideboard holding within itself a warmth and security that I only otherwise found in books and the hushed sound of reasoned stories I'd yet to understand from my father's lips. In this cupboard was stored the very fabric of my life required for calmness, a breathing in of assurance. I've not breathed that same scent since, only in the aroma of the pages do I find a level of comfort, the words hold an entirely different meaning but no less enlightening, providing a connection within and in relation to the world outside. The means by which I escape the slipstream of the other's bungled ideas put together of how we should be living and get back into a mere and simple natural pace that provides support and reality beyond the bullshit of everyday existence in these times of incredible falsehood, for incredible it is to withstand such separation without cracking apart entirely.

If I were braver I'd not be as private in my dealings with my fellow people but I am in secrecy provided a peace of mind that would otherwise shatter the fragile house I reside, made unstable by a shifted high moral ground that would sink me into a hole of unconformity. I am pulled to pit myself against that which would punish me, leave me without my roof that also robs me greatly, for home is and has never been a sanctuary for my bruised existence. It is an aim I feel greater angst the closer I become. A troubled belief that all will be lost once found. I am spent by the hurdles I jump, desperately requiring rest fully in the safeness I defend myself against. That stillness I become restless in sitting too long yet not nearly long enough before interrupted by the pull of judgement, only in deserved retirement may we stop. I want not to strive for that final lap set about in this wretched society but to know deep within that the end line is just the beginning of where we are all along. The awakening deriving from awareness of the life we hide in futile attempts to show ourselves in progressive light, that which we have achieved through strife and collection, not enlightenment and letting go. I want to let go and slip away into my own stream of existence. To have is to be, so I strive to be.