The Deliberate Truth

'Blessed is he that escapes the storm at sea,’ but when the storm has formed internally, our sense of land is uneven. There are no safe ports to find shelter from the constant squall of young madness. Though, it is important to emphasize not just the follies, but the gift of all this chaos. When life clamps down with snarling jaws to shake and rattle like a violent tambourine, the only solace found is in the ride itself. It is sink or swim once the universe parts its folds and beckons the mind towards astral projections of the wild imagination and astonishing visions. We struggle to keep our heads above the avalanche of words and wars in the heart, but are rewarded in doing so, illuminating and banishing the ghosts that haunt the soul’s attic. I say this as a declaration of reason and intention, in pursuit to give you scraps of insight into my tangled mind: to externalize all of this ever-blooming sensation has become a burden so immense, that I am poised with the ultimatum of writing my way out of from these fast-closing walls. I digress to the blood of this particular account, which was documented through strange and wild eyes. My veins have boiled in the fires of the most ineffable ardor, and just as prominently have been knotted by sickening doubt and discord. Running through them is brine caked with salt. These pages were delivered by oceanic extremities, thoughts consigned to intransience by the cry of the mind’s ebbing tide. Born to fisherman who toiled the gray seas, I understood that we are poised only with the option of groping into the ether of the experiment we know as human life with patient will and open heart. Armed with unceasing and unquenchable desire to experience this fantastical circus, this maddening and surreally wondrous world of which we reside. Though blood cannot be mentioned without noting the integral heart, fueling the machinery of bone and flesh, which feels more than it could ever be expected to burden. The heart, of which without these pages would be trivialized by the lack of proper emotion. The heart that has tried to open its orifices to the sweetest touches, but still endures alien aches like a phantom limb even when it finds rhythmic beat in another. The heart that has tried mightily despite it’s falls into solitude, searching for muses in a demonstration of the eternal crux of human emotion; a vessel that claws to survive until full. Lastly, I reside to the bones of this hive of scrambled and anxious thoughts. The skeleton that aches for a life far from the skin it is bound to, dreaming of narrow streets, rich fields, distant oceans, restless with its resignation to mutualism and shared inhabitance with the labored heart and wandering mind. The bones that carry with them a desire to be more than just the framework, but to hoist this whole body of words as far as a passionate whisper could conceivably travel, and then a footstep further, out to the precipice between the beautiful and most horrifying, where the soul dangles it’s toes over the edge. The hardened bones that endure because a story will remain tepid and limp, a flimsy orgy of words without its spine bracing it to be expelled beyond it’s original flesh of crumpled, ink-stained volumes. It has taken the immensity of the world pressing down upon me to squeeze out an acceptable dedication to the majesty of verdant life and brilliant love, to properly enunciate the magnitude of this cacophonous chaos and deduce the fateful shifting of the universe. I am no more enlightened than any other person, and in this I am steadfast, but I have felt nothing more excruciatingly in my heart and mind, blood and bones than the vivid, salty brine of existence coursing through me, desperate for a page or an ear, and inherently I must free it before it swallows me whole in its ability to conjure the vast sensation of feeling so ubiquitously. The storm is still brewing and the tempest will only be quelled with a pen, so I scrape onward at the glacial surface that prohibits the kindling of understanding in the perpetual darkness of being. In this, the writer endures the most important struggle of all: to articulate the unknowable.