The Midstream

I never thought to go insane, or to grow in a current so to speak. But all men must live in muddy waters before flowing into a river of happiness.

To plant the seeds and to grow, quietly midstream a tempest, whose power to destroy is inherent to nature’s will. Men’s conquest is to live in this river of thought, without ever going insane. But who says that sanity is ever the same as good or evil? Perhaps to look for the bottom of things is the search we were all wishing in secret. Can you see when I tell you, that to find the power of a story in its origin in never a pleaure, but a mistake comitted by amateurs? Things are more profound when looked at superficially. The artist matures, he begins to write in sophisticated words and suddenly forgets who it was for, that he was writing. Well beloved readers, I truly believe that no matter what, madness in this craft is just the beginning of a transformation taken by the ones that truly believe the world is ending, and without an ambition we write for the dead, for those who consider themselves over and done. Magic is a part in every beings life, but for the writers, there must be secret atheism, for they believe only in their work. I’m an example and as I search for philosophy and spirituality the mind wanders into and beyond strange places, where the novels of ancient ghosts and the ideas of murered gods care to be listened to. One must close it’s ears and walk untouched by these monsters of time, if of course desires to be free of mind. I create movement, phrases to awaken the children at night, when their sleep has almost begun, but of course, the parents must tell a story, in this case it’s a horror story that I tell, because I’m perturbed, not for the the kids of course, but for you, fluttering through pages every night, whose power to understand this and comprehend the details of the crazy is enforced by reality’s touch. I float in the waters and my roots have been cut, starting all over again after so much time, this is death, but not the end. Who is it, that chooses to grow in a current? The river must be muddy then, all life suffocates, and so do I, going in circles, circles...