Soot. Sooth. Soothe.

…chronic discontent, a marathon runner

restless, a wonderer, his forever struggle drifting

past the hills, fearing plateaus.

He arrives, desperate and breathless, at another house party:

"I need to see a man about a god. That is, a dog."

Receive their tinkling laughter. Complicit.

Some snide lip curling 'round a cigarette.

Kom ons raak a bietjie dagdronk

God. Damn. Feel. Good.

Feel welcome, here in the company of emotional vultures.

Sophisticated. Kak classy.

The DJ sets up his beats in the living room, still

Outside the one they all wanna fuck strums and sings

She's still sleeping her way through the riptide of being so

badly wanted, and the consequences of affectation.

It's another popularity contest, they say, out there in the Real World,

now that school's out, or so I've been told (when they told me so).

"When, exactly?" "Oh, did they?" "What time is it?"

Her chords jarring now against the insistent electronic beats.

All hail the robots, let the Games begin

the glory of the binge again

the weekly weekend purge just

a runner's frame as his testament and

in our temple is the altar to the flailing god of ego.

You know, the one we're told to serve, because he is Great and Good. Ergo:

dyed green, although they never quite tell you that.

"Wow...when did he get so strong?"

"Guess we weren't paying attention…"

Oh but we are paying with

attention. Time is money; currency.

Consider what's current?

Thank God, though, Grace made it to the party.

And they still invite her, drawn

into the ferment on her fringe there's

the calling; still, and small, but insistent.

Okay sure; right now it's drowned out by the beats, and

by her skin trapped under your fingers. But,

but it will be back. Go ahead, mark my words.

It's possessed of a mother's persistence.

You can't drown out silence forever.

You can try though.

You can always try.

Sigh.

Up and down the Hill, hearts

of stone are worn to numb nothing.

To accept: Love unlocks the doors to hurt.

To realize: beyond those door are the fields of Life.

Would you farm them, ploughbearer?

Would you guard the doors?

Or are you still pacing back

and forth, a servant

of the wall pendulum, brandishing

another rat-reason:

"I wish!"

"But…"

"I can't, I – I don't have the time."

Time.

You see your time is given, bought, and bartered, but

it can also be made; you must make time.

You must.

I'm serious, you can sleep when you're dead. And you do.

They know this, of course, but so do you.

A splinter in the mind.

Use it.

Here's that voice again; so small, so true:

it's up to you, it always was.

Because really

what else is there to do?

Point fingers?

Play the blame game?

Okay, child. If you must.

When you're ready, I'll be there too, and

so will your backpack.

Oh don't worry, it's already fully loaded:

don't worry, and never fear.

But, you know, it's okay to be guided by your beasts

sometimes I mean

you feel for a reason.

The weight of a feeling can change the world,

those who carry their compass of self-inflicted responsibility.

And of course your mind is a tool too, incredible, but

also Pay Attention to those chance encounters, to

(the old man at the bar, that

girl who wants you to break the rules, and

a friendly passer-by, offering steamed rice and tea atop the mountain)

all that's unplanned product

of circumstance, 'coz

abundance is

birthed from unconscious

collectives.

(they are not an aside)

And be nice. To everyone. Probably they've just had a shitty day and, likely

so have you. Why make it worse?

So you force the first smile – yes you – and then see what happens next.

Most people are nice. Birds of a feather flock together.

Start to gather great Thoughts. Use them. Weave a cocoon.

Trace out the Big Ideas your ancestors took for stepping stones, as cornerstones,

or as lifeboats for when the tides get rough.

Remember that guy Noah?

Well maybe God did it the first time, but now it's us fucking with the weather.

I'm just saying.

Okay, well, where to from here? Why not

leap for the moon, maybe make it halfway.

What they leave out of the cliché is that halfway up are clouds,

and that's way better than the dirt below. Even if it's just for a passing moment.

What they leave out of the platitude is this:

You can simply carry on

from wherever

you find yourself, or have landed.

It's that easy. Really, you can

begin again. Anytime, anywhere.

Realize you already do, you just didn't realize, and accept

the only constant is constant change.

Mark my words.

I'm serious.

Memo to my future self:

"All systems go. Set the controls for the heart of impossible."

Read between the lines, and keep

looking for Truth in the middle;

where it always was.

.:.