┌ abstract of the human condition ┘

[Random]

"i love you, my dearest"

╟ is the mind a mirror of nature, or does consciousness and imagination pollute our perception of reality?
time and time and time and time again i strike the heart of my mark
i fail, yes, i do--is that so bad?

how is it that a lake is adventure, drowning and quencher of thirsts all at once?
if there is God, is His eternal creation only Nature?
the wind tarnished by the ugly fletching of my arrow, i apologize for my failures.

i love you, my dearest
and i am the free, earnest intention of my string.
i promise, the iron tipped assault on your battered chest is my affection.  

here i come, my query laid bare for all of your world to witness. 
here i come, defying the conventions of your reality.
because i know now, that the mind is transformative. ╫

[Random]

"My sweet Chuvenal, would you fetch me the Kashmiri spice? It's the red one."

"Yes, mother."

"My sweet Chuvenal, would you help your father with the harvest? His cold fingers hardly caress me anymore!"

"Yes, mother."

Chuvenal, in the latest hours of the night, sets ablaze the lamp at his bedside--beacon to guide his boaty words across the serene waters of his yellowed pages. A little rustic journal bound by chicken wire, he starts to scribble. This one he dubs, "Ode to a Red Herring".

Oh, it is not so bad to wait,

Living purgatory, eagerly anticipating fate,

Oh Father, Mother, you mustn't fret

I am a happy little boy, beet farmer just like you,

Day in, day out, night sleep, night's end

[Plate 2 Missing]

Oh, sorry, I lie!

What malady beckons me to imagine!

Sick ungrateful little boy, they will say,

Leaving the farm, leaving his nest

To Hel with this ode, no ode this is!

This is misery of my condition.

Would you, who has birthed me,

Damn me for exploring, the Nature,

That thou have made me love, or

Would you, who has made me strong,

Damn me for lifting the burden,

That thou, have carried for me so long

But if to dream is malady, then

I don't want to be sick anymore,

But there aren't doctors here.

Maybe I will, dream some into existence.

Chuvenal closes his journal. . .

[Random]

Dear Mom and Dad,

Today a bird flew over my head,

There were no trees in sight,

No nests of Nature, to give its

Little wings respite, or to shelter it,

From the sun.

I love you,

But I want to fly too.

No other birds beside me,

But peaceful in my,

Purpose.

I've hopped on a merchant wagon,

And for a little bit of coin,

Someone will deliver this letter to you.

I will find other lonely birds,

And then, we will fly together,

Making home in our solitude.

Your Dearest,
Chuvenal