by Nicholas Keys
Master said: ”Virtue above all is humanism, one’s own good words and deeds is all; mandated place in fate and a lack of constant, sage kings praised but we must all think for ourselves,’ there is only one thread that runs through my doctrines’, a systematic philosophical self-truth, believing upon one thread: conscientiousness and altruism.
Profit as a motivation, enemies made, personal favors, entitled to, superiority above self-labeled inferior, foreigners, capital fear and grandeur, centered, give them dirt and they’ll turn it to gold, difference in morality from one person to another, master oneself, returning to the transcendental sobriety of propriety, educational class distinctions, extinction of social codes, historical, uniform, forms of philosophical forgetfulness, full of life, unknown, afterwards, forward past life into death, heaven never says a word, not a fault of human nature, goodness, similar to one another, perfected righteousness, nourished until it grows but Fortuna spins a cycles of rebirth and forgotten rebuilds, concentration upon Will, the ‘Way’ is humane, made, remade into a fresh and rotting recreation of a former self, losing a childhood, gaining-
Master said: “Life is an ocean-move with the waves, ripples and currents, if fate takes oneself downstream or upstream, follow all directional outlooks, the ‘Way’ is a river never ceasing day or night, light is the opposite of darkness, to be happy-one must be an ocean, not in an ocean”
He spoke, no one listened, he cried for a friend, calling to heaven, why was he forsaken, late and never early, morning ritualistic substance, supplementing
Learn, to turn the yearning nature of a new morning into the tranquility of love’s mourning kiss upon your eyes with tears of individuality and passion, emotional devotion to the potions and elixirs of first sight, witnessing the world without flight, carelessly mocking the night, another-give them another and let the story continue, bodiless, floating adrift in a temporal shift, lifted towards heaven.
Master said: “Being is Entities-we are one but we are also many, manifestations-whether good or bad, are a result of nature; the ‘Way’ is man-made and heaven cannot be saved, it must be remade”
Master said: “Interpretations are internal presumptions of understanding, predation of a concept called a system, timed perfectly to seem as if it is the original idea, losing all meaning and truth, abused and misused.”
Excommunication, humiliating nations fading planets, onwards rightfulness back home wind water refuge wilderness screeched finally a leech to lend a hand in need of some things never changed back into a duality beseeched-community communication is all that is needed wanted lost-
Perusal of an imagination, everything ends-ash-dust-human-
Half gone middle mediums…
He found refuge upon water, a singular entity on the horizontal skyline; without land to firmly place his feet, he drifted in dreams on a speechless night without sleep, ocean, fragile lover moving in a perpetual fall of raw emotion, rotting commotion uproariously brought to a silenced applause, found in the wilderness without a self, empty like wealth; Marc climbed a mountain to descend worse than when he had left, when he reached the bottom, he couldn’t breath-abnormal gasping-for air, for tranquility-at ease, a beacon found him in a desert, devil’s territory, transfiguration, figurative, archetype of humanity, saved, remained, cave allegories, suffering through divine pain, hurt-waiting to be healed, he traveled against the flow of the river, ‘use to have been’-‘all that has been seen’; never ceasing, walking with a new disease, like sheep to a follower as was he to his personality, believing himself to be as great as a mountain, too great to breath, relief-leeches, preaching tolerance as a hypocrite, pushing towards the ocean; no one to be, everywhere to go, he became a leader in his dreams, rural culture preferred the city, woman as man, identity, opposites fell out of his hands like the remnants of a ‘once-great’ civilization, laborious nations, unionized in patience, awaiting a calf-fearing the bull; old age slips into youth, for the here, to daylight instead of the unknown night, what is outside of sight, working for nothing-stability-carrying something-things to claim as you, words that were said to be true, forward to go backwards.
Lonely, low, with, out in the cold-anyone to hold, alone-
Naturi wished he knew the way home, the investigation had left a discomfort within his bones, etched in a pain of small stones, acting like a compass, water split it into two parts long ago, torn adrift into an island with its own unique set of customs, several seas surrounding one of the center’s mothers, His feet trudged past a bridge; walking along the railing he contemplated his life. Was it all over for him, could his wife ever forgive him beyond appearance? Words streaked through his conscience as he teetered towards death. Why was everyone dying, were there no characters to follow in the narrative? Myths rewritten by a different hand imbues a darkened significance. Reenacting his life for himself, he was the author of his depressed state. Many interpretations made their thousand paths into his consciousness, reinventions of nonsense, harmless jumps into a God-send, a mistake to make he had several months left to live, the cancer was progressing but the signs remained disguised, he slumped and engaged in sake binges and late night excursions, throughout the streets, drunk and nervous, stumbling into someone who might mistake him for a stranger.
“If we do not yet know about life, how can we know about death”; his father would be rectified under conscientiousness and altruism, one thread woven into every piece of clothing he owned. Always comforting him in times of trouble and weariness, downtrodden without his words being heard; he was no more, just as Naturi was about to be. He stared at the industrial behemoth that lurched itself forth out of a treacherous jungle. Fumbled idealism lost to ‘universal love’. His father was unmotivated by profit, kept the same job for many years. Every time something was taken from him, he remained optimistic, one less thing to worry about as he came to grip with his sorrows. He reached into his chest and pulled out the manifesto, tossing it in the air just as Hui had at the subway station. They scattered upon the floor of the river below, some floating on the surface, others sinking into poverty in the depths, meant to be cursed by having a righteous nature from the start, a mean doctrine, three consciousness treaties, a way out of this damned city. He had found nirvana that one true moment. Jumping off the bridge and falling fast, lights flashed in and he was taken to a hospital. They deemed it psychosis and completely out of character. His own hand, wrenching cycle of torment, would have annihilated his moral dignity; we have a cure for your ailments, your wife’s regret. He begins to finally awake in the comfort of serenity, in his home with his loving wife, without a scratch on him, out of the hospital in her loving arms.
