ST140 ... Author Toms Madness
a metamorphosis of madness
Comes at a cost, everything does. He was driven mad by the madness surrounding. The man with no head struggling along the curb for a simple piece of bread and finding death delivered on a poisoned paper plate. The sweet things begging for attention across their perfect breasts and speaking about their savior, all in one breath. The hidden secrets forcing tender hearts into submission. There is no madness greater than the mad attempt to survive amidst the madness of it all, superior than that of itself, mad madness moving across minds everywhere.
Tommy was one of those few that dared to question anything. Was jesus gay or a form of satan when he apparently said 'Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life', or was he referring to what most presume, something much greater, sacred, uncertain, vague. Just a question, with so many gay priests. Questions like that. They would go nowhere, meant nothing, almost ridiculous…… but he had the nerve to ask, Tommy was like that. Occasionally it would lead him onto some extremely interesting plateaus, 'dangerous levels', too often, he thought.
The world was mad from many perspectives. The longevity of wars. The love of war; the ultimate money maker. He never wanted war, never fought in one, never voted. Never hated anyone to the extend of wishing them dead; only healed, beheaded mystically. 'How come' he thought, inside, 'so many people can't see the spirit that flows in the waters, the trees, the grasses, the animals and it weaves itself within everything;' how come, 'they must be going mad, a disturbed heart, a numb distorted mind, how come so many, how can that be'.?
He knew the world was mad, had gone mad and he at moments would go mad in seeing this madness, clear….. not always quite clear enough to see him through beyond the madness, into some softer light. Madness, sad mad madness.
In a clear landscape a rare red road laid itself out before him, he walked. The hierarchic-system of the dominant crowd had wound their ways across the globe with temptations so severe most would die, walk proud to the altar, sacrificed like flesh eating savages in wired suits to the butcher’s blade. The world was mad. Anyone could see that if they stopped their mind long enough to feel the power of grace emanating everywhere. That was not happening. The noice of man is loud.
Wars quietly smash like a bloody hell; out of site, inside the mind. Preparing, creating, fighting, supporting war, war, war.
The ancient ways. Respect for our mother, the giver of all water-life. Being honest to the messages that surrenders one. Walking away from the madness of separateness to the community of ancestors. Feeling the connection related to everything. Melting into it all. There was a way.
There is nothing so astounding than the awareness of oneself not of what one once was. Even the memories can't grasp the remnants left dangling upon faded slippery walls of sheer fantastic madness. We have changed. We are not what we once were. It is all gone. Occasionally a deep shot of the past slashes up against the mind and dies again right there in front of you, slides down a mindscape into oblivion and there you are, half of you, a part, hanging on to vague segments…. and then the new, the streets are filling up with scenes so alike, so familiar, so distant and mad. You have to really surrender, let go of it all, sit there with the little left hanging and humble yourself into the remainder for a possible forgiving day.
You carry on. Life will end. You know that. A sad loneliness floats by, you watch it, undisturbed, staring into the street, not waiting, not asking, not being anything that you can really point a finger at. The day moves into itself and you go along for the ride. No appointments, no desire to finish anything, or start anything new, content watching, pondering, asking nothing of anything, of anyone, surrendered to that strange freedom of being.
The sky is pure blue clear and the air is calm within a trembling breeze and the mind is soft, melting into it all.
Madness is in the air, everywhere
solitude, an escape
along sands of eternity
where silence wades, sees.
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