Times of radiant sunshine, or pale moon glow.
Times and times, until sometimes the lines are so messed up, I can't even tell where the hell I am anymore.
Always, tho, a struggle. This great struggle, and sense of lost self. Shelves grown dusty, objects discarded, Of a time, long, long, ago, or in the distant future, or maybe even right Now.
Who the hell knows or even cares anymore?
There was a time, once, in a place with Three moons, and great and glorious mountains, Across the horizon.
Forests, beyond the ability to imagine, great and looming. Ancient fathers, mothers, of time. Into these great oaks we would crawl, popping in and out amongst the planets outer crust.
Creatures such as you could never imagine, and breath, fresher and clearer, then it has been around here since civilization first appeared.
Somewhere there was softness, a gentle touch, a woman's laughter, the rough touch of a man.
Somewhere there is happiness, and peacefulness. And my world is filled with more glorious things then I could dare ever ask for.
Somewhere out there is my lost innocence, and youth, and belief, yes, even in mankind.
I have talked for longer then I care to remember about getting this story out. I never seem to really be able to get it going however. I am not really sure why, I just sort of skim the edges of it all the time.
I guess to some relative degree, I feel the story is already out there. Cast a million times, through a million generations, each picking out there own rythm and rhyme. I see it everywhere, all the time.
I remember reading one day, on a website, about a place and a world and a fantasy, Machra-la I believe, http://www.silvestris.net/pangaea/
On this site, I had happened upon, there it was, The story, almost as exactly as I remembered it, of a reflection of one of my own series of 'lives'. The worst part of this situation is this...These details, some, hinted at, some fully revieled, are ones that have cost me much pain for many generations of 'living' in what some people refer to as the real world. Or, our Middle Earth. A world so staunched with sheeple and illusions, it is a wonder one can find themselves at all.
This story, it is a chapter of reflection, into a sensation of mortal reality, an incarnation of many lessons. Some of which, ones about Pride and Arrogance. It is a chapter, which up until that point, I considered nobody elses business but my own. One of many stories, these things were a part of my private time, and private imaginings. I would "play", "imagine", "fear", "feel", and eventually, come to embrace. Come to find an inner sense of home, "me", "mine", with. Use it to help and develop, a solid, inner basis of understanding one's self, and explore into one's future with.
I am sure most people would consider me crazy. And maybe I am. I would consider myself lucky to be crazy, then to think with the brain consistent in common man.
I guess you could say the entire ordeal kinda cheapened my experience of myself and how others relate to me.
Then Funnily enough, as I am following along the articles, and the pictures, paintings or snapshots, some ingenious artist, became inspired to write, about utterly private moments of mine, I came across, a strange warning, about how I have no right to use this story, about me, in any way shape or form. I could not have the pictures, of me, or paste them on my website. I could not use myself as an avatar, nor online name. Apparently, I am not even allowed to conceptualize about myself,or my own plots, and stories, either.
Oh not me with the shell I exist in now, but me all the same.
Worse yet, those who know me on a more intimate level, know very well my story, and introduced me to the page by saying...Hey look, it's Righ!!!!!!!!Grrrrr I hate that name.
Anyway, the moral of this story is, things wouldn't have happened to me quite that way if I weren't so insistant on hiding myself.
I am quite alarmed, however, by the way ppl react to me when I reviel my true self to them. Most people prefer a bubble. I like it that way.
Have you ever read the story of Small Gods? It is written by Terry Pratchet. This story makes me laugh. How like that poor turtle I have felt. A great, and mighty God, who, blind to his own arrogances, and bitterness, fell.
Fell so far and so deep, as to find himself surpassing the brightest star.
They used to say to me..."The brighter the star, the farther the fall"
And I never understood that.
I was to busy trying to have my name and day.
What has become of that now?
Not to bloody much in my eyes.
The same thing as ever I saw before. We all know my version of Democracy...it is slavery in my eyes. I have watched it on this planet a million times before.
The stories, the patterns. They are all there, each with their own name, version or ryme. They have influenced, an entire species, for generation upon generation, and foolish me, playing my games, imagining myself, in my youth, would never have known.
So what then, did I make it all up? Is it just my imagination, based of some distant fairy-tale, read to me by some distant Aunt?
Did I just 'tap' into, some consciousness or entity? Absorbing a little of its thoughts. How do these strangers know these intimate details about me. I mean, most of the time, the story is so twisted, as to be nothing more then shear fantasy, and no one would even think to associate it with me. But others. They are so truly obvious.
Wow. Quite the little Me rant.
Me Me Me.
God, my thoughts, are so scattered right now. Maybe a little too much "transubstantion,"
Well, I asked for it anyhow.
I wanted all of my Karma dealt with Now.
If I had one wish, i just wish that all of my children didn't have to deal with it.
Believe in past lives, alternate lives, multiple lives, or not. I know what I have experienced, and what it has meant to me.
In the end that is all that matters right?
What the hell makes me think I'm so fucking special.
But you know, at the same time, I sometimes think I am more blind, and insignificant, then poor ShoShomaru, the little white mouse...Thought he'd wander out of the cage one day. Poor silly little mouse, didn't realize that those bars, that caging, was there for his protection.
Outside of it is a hungry, raging, panther-beast by the name of twitchyfur And worse yet, are the four horsemen, rampaging with child like squeals and screams, trolliping with a gang of unknown rebles, romping the house apart.
And when they have finished, creating their nightmare, they come back, yes they do...stomping their way through one stomp at a time, upon all those cozy little tunnels, and hidy-holes, freedom has offered him, crushing them with monster feet, with no care whatsoever, for tiny little mouses, trapped in holes.
And if it isn't them...it is one of the Giants that seems to chase after them, with garbage bags and laundry baskets, and chemicals. And always, always the twitcy beast.
Yes, these pathways, these tunnels, long and dark, which run through my mind...like the stupid little mouse...The cage just is never enough
So Onto Todays Lesson.