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Walden Pond

Being a Chronicle of Man against Men

Walden Pond

Being a Chronicle of Man against Men

I am not there; I did not die

I have nothing, I am nothing, therefore with nothing to be and nothing to lose what else may become of me but something greater - far wider mayhap - than whatever the sum of this Man's-realm dwelling could produce. 

 

Ere lunch time, for People move and cycle and reignite their hopes and fears, trouble and desire by no other hands than those of social Time, we buried my friend's mother, laid her to forgetfulness under layers of artifice and stone, nature and compelling wood. I had considered to carry cameliae collected from those that now sprout in cascading waves across my lawn, a scarlet relic that insists on renewing its pantheon-forsaken seasons although, should I be stumbled upon dead and gone by first light tomorrow,  my left index finger will no longer be said to sport a dull, but stolid, steel wedding band as it once had around the weeks and months it took for the flower bush to root, settle and flourish. 

 

We have dishonored the whim of disobedience, we have been paid for it to crumble and so we worshipped its slow-motion, frame by frame disaster that blended into a pale, grotesque, parody of tribalized chaos ratified by central-planned bureaucracy. Every barber has now closed shop, and the servants stalk their masters on every roundabout, nook, cranny, and pond. 

 

These days of ours are like much abandoned loam gone forever without even the most base of base bacteria to support its swellling. The land implodes under a burgeoning heart, and it reeks of dystopia. 

 

The crux of our misery is that few among the few will read, let alone "translate" and understand, and nary a soul will realize, what I am ranting about, a matter which stands shy of describing, or deciphering, the reasons for the collapse of peripheral societies like that of Portugal. 

 

A box is laid unto the ground. Within our minds, a sunset beckons and fingers point toward the horizon, but every single soul cannot be helped but to stick its undelivered gaze upon the fingers, while the beautiful colours play and swirl and commingle and dance and sway the minds of those who happen to stroll close by, driven by the wise foreseeing choices of their forefathers. 

 

We do not know, we do not spell. The world remains as locked by intellectual contraptions unattainable to the socially neophyte, as it did back in the day when hundreds of people would do 3000 km non-stop trips, just to get home in time for August festivities and hand out a few packs of chocolate milk among the village children, thus garnering plenty of remembrance points.

 

Do not stand at our grave and weep. We are not there. We do not sleep. We can remember much forgetfulness. 

 

posted at 15:34

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