Sunday, February 21, 2010

Broken Spirit

I awaken on the verge of vomiting with guilt.
Alive in an open grave, the whispers of my disease are delivered to me by the dead spirits of salmon, polar bear, carrier pigeon, timber wolf, buffalo, rivers, trees, mountainsides, and indigenous humans.

Unable to breath without feeling the winds desire to choke the lungs of my species.
Unable to face the forest without shame.
Unable to face my fellow humans without disgust, resentment, and hatred.
Barely able to shake the dust of paralysis off my tired bones.
Barely able to scare off the crows who perch in large numbers in the cavity of my skull,
preventing clarity of vision and thought.

We have built a broken home out of dead carcasses, which separate us from life. We no longer know how to participate with the trees and animals.
Participation breeds feelings of happiness.

Our brains are nourished with the conversations of our fellow human, as our unnurtured spirit wastes away, unable to hear the life providing whispers of the elements.
Our happiness is deceptive and lives behind a false grin, but our eyes cannot tell the lie.

Do I walk the humans concrete path into the tree carcass building in which they gather, or do I abandon the herd and the language of our participation, trading it in for the lonely language of wind and earth.
I fear, but accept, the inevitable insanity of either choice.
I feel it approaching, with footsteps ever growing in volume and impact, shaking the foundation around me.

Self made outcast, without the union of community,
I must embrace the archetype of the trickster and make a choice before the sands of paralysis bury my broken spirit.

1 comment:

  1. I hear you. But you are not alone. This is the spirit of the age... profound disallusionment from our detachment from the wild. We medicate with our ultra high res tv screens and relentless data mining social networks, but they are only abstract bandaides on a metaphysical void.



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