Teardrop

Teardrop

The danger with disappointment, especially when it has accompanied sorrow, is projection. The sanctimony of the artful mental manipulations of the mind, mendaciously matriculating from the college of the soul. Grief is a dreadful taskmaster unless it is confronted, and while we presume to believe only in all that has gone before, that blistered light that once shone as stars in the nebulous universe of our unfolding, to seek to avoid the vacuum that shapes and controls even the greatest of these spheres is a dreadful mistake. No one wants to see the dark, especially when one projects such light as a mask, but to avoid the truth in the nature of that balance is simply to abdicate ones life journey in favour of a fantastical illusion, an illusion so powerful it blinds us to the truth of it, whilst subtly eking between the cracks. Sorrow, uncontested, becomes a bitter sword wielded by the blind. We say to ourselves, 'We, are light, They are dark, We are in control, they are chaos,' the eternal polemic becomes a battle contested in ourselves and projected upon the world, until all are separated in a sanctimony of dis-equilibria. The courage to face the shadow, the fear, the darkened remnants of our own grief, allows for the transcendent moment to redress that balance in an authentic manner, so that we are no longer forced to project a false polemic upon the world, and love can once again form new stars in this universe we all share. All else is illusion...

 © Richard Michael Parker 2016