Max Davine's Blog - Posts Tagged "sadness"
The Voice Of Pain
You are the entrepreneur of a truth you have not yet found. An oracle, storyteller, philosopher, a guiding light sought by thousands, you can hear me now. I demand that you hear me now.
You call from the mountains. Many heed your cry, many sing your song, your voice is pure and your words are enchanting. Your voice is like the Autumn breeze.
You have volume and the masses come to you. Your body is desired, your coffer growing ever fatter, you live well from the willing gold flung at you, to the foot of your alter.
But my spell is more potent, entwined throughout you, whispered to you softly and carried on the gentle currents. There are none who see me nor feels me but for the slight chill that slivers amidst your warm radiance.
I am reviled, a secret deep within, far from the eyes of others, I am your shame, I am the ache in your heart like an ember resting deep in it's deepest recess and glowing forever.
Your melodies and seductive lyrics are spiked with my scent, though you hate me, it is I who brings you capital, I who am your love, your will, your desire, your hunger, your success, your sweetness, I gave them to you.
I am the spring from which you flow. The ice on the mountain peaks from which your fine tunes shower down.
You deny me, but I am patient, for one day you will hunt for me, need me, desire me, hunger for my flesh, before me there were no things but those which are eternal, and before you were, I waited for you. Idle in the sky and fertilizing your earth, I waited for my perfect host.
You voice will mute. Your masses will lovingly depart. You will be alone with me. Have naught but me.
I will still be here, secreting my venom through you long after there is nothing else left, my whisper will penetrate you, just as it always has.
Just as it always shall.
You call from the mountains. Many heed your cry, many sing your song, your voice is pure and your words are enchanting. Your voice is like the Autumn breeze.
You have volume and the masses come to you. Your body is desired, your coffer growing ever fatter, you live well from the willing gold flung at you, to the foot of your alter.
But my spell is more potent, entwined throughout you, whispered to you softly and carried on the gentle currents. There are none who see me nor feels me but for the slight chill that slivers amidst your warm radiance.
I am reviled, a secret deep within, far from the eyes of others, I am your shame, I am the ache in your heart like an ember resting deep in it's deepest recess and glowing forever.
Your melodies and seductive lyrics are spiked with my scent, though you hate me, it is I who brings you capital, I who am your love, your will, your desire, your hunger, your success, your sweetness, I gave them to you.
I am the spring from which you flow. The ice on the mountain peaks from which your fine tunes shower down.
You deny me, but I am patient, for one day you will hunt for me, need me, desire me, hunger for my flesh, before me there were no things but those which are eternal, and before you were, I waited for you. Idle in the sky and fertilizing your earth, I waited for my perfect host.
You voice will mute. Your masses will lovingly depart. You will be alone with me. Have naught but me.
I will still be here, secreting my venom through you long after there is nothing else left, my whisper will penetrate you, just as it always has.
Just as it always shall.
The Deprived
The First World is in peril. No, the threat does not come from terrorism, for these are conflicts which have always been thus and shall continue for a thousand years more, until there is no more human blood to be spilled. No, not economically, for thus is the nature of free enterprise; it rises and falls like the tides and we are but subjects to it's own ebb and flow. The bombs will not fall, we love our children too much, and can have their that so too do our opponents. The world, Gaia, she may be sick, but we are not so powerful as to leave a lasting mark on her body, or her soul. She may weep, but she will recover and forget us more quickly than we came. The peril I am speaking of is not guns, or insurgents, or the wrath of Mother Nature. The danger, the threat, the greatest enemy we and our children will face is one far more insidious, one far more powerful and one far more alive and immediate than the speed at which a nuclear weapon can be launched. Our enemy, our one true nemesis, lies within. Gaia may weep, but it is our souls which are being destroyed. The worst aspect of it is, we don't have an iota of a clue how, or why.
As a person existing in the real world, which I seldom do, I find that there are certain social constructs to which I am poorly accustomed. Small talk is as alien to me as would be riding side-saddle on an asteroid to you. I go out, drink my coffee or tea at the pub or at a house party, or event, or what else have you, and see people smiling, laughing and chatting away in a manner that I have no concept of. I see casual, soon-to-be one off lovers whispering to each other and can't fathom what they're saying. I see friends jabbering enthusiastically on subjects I don't understand. I am a loner, and accept myself thus. I'm happy.
Having said that, the privacy settings of my mind are virtually nil. My struggles, trials, thoughts and feelings are open book. So, that being the case, should anyone take the time to come talk to me at one of the aforementioned gatherings, they soon find themselves entangled in deep conversation. What they ask, I answer. Plainly and candidly. A man will know if I like his blazer. A woman will know she is attractive. If the conversation should veer into the arena of the deeply personal, I do not withhold answers. It can be as simple as asking me where my drink is. I'll tell them I don't have one, I'll tell them why. If they ask why I'm sitting by myself, I'll tell them.
The effect is not what might be expected. Sometimes they quickly lose interest, and retreat back into their preferred field of sweet nothingness. But often, and often is relative, they quickly open themselves to me.
I've seen tears begin to flow. I've seen eyes downcast as people talk. I've heard the tone of their voices drop as self-shame and regret begin to seize them. I know of their addictions, battles both fought and in progress, I know of their relationship traumas, their parents, their breakdowns. I then, more often than not, see them quickly escape back into themselves, and make for the nearest wine cask. Sometimes they avoid my instinctual reach for them, to comfort them, or to provide them with further conversation that, inadvertently, may ease their suffering. Sadly, it more often that not isn't long before I see them passed out, doubled over in their own sorrow or simply further galvanizing the walls in which they guard themselves.
The frequency of this occurrence is alarming. So frequent, in fact, that I can now barely look at a happy face without feeling some element of empathy for what may simply be a facade, a mask shielding great pain. I see a generation of financially secure and physically blessed people, lost and desperate, reaching out to shadows and mirages which offer them no solace. I see a generation in darkness.
We find outlets; some box, some dance, some act, some sing, some write...but ever the core of the pain is sheltered. Hidden for fear that someone might see it. What should be simply social groups converging over a mutual love for some practice becomes an angry clique, seeking out and attacking those who practice the same hobbies differently to vindicate themselves. We seem incapable of forming a group to work for the better of ourselves, without becoming a gang of thugs out to degrade another group who share our passion, albeit in a different light.
What is this fevered nightmare that bids to tear the beautiful people apart? What is this fear of exposure, when are lives are so easily shared and our pleas are so easily heard? We have all become addicted to being known about, but we are traumatized at the thought of being known. We treat connection as though it were poison. Love as though it were a toxin, or a cure upon which we invest too much of our own happiness. We fear showing ourselves, because we hate ourselves.
But why?
Rightly our compassion has swelled over the past few decades. We care now for the world's wellbeing than we ever have, we care more for those less fortunate now, and we fight for our beliefs. But too often we wage war on peaceful ground. We love everything except ourselves. Depression is anger turned inward, happiness is love turned inward. When we love ourselves, we give permission to others to love us.
So I can only deduce that this lack of permission we give to anyone to know us, comes from some deep-seeded pain and revulsion at our own selves. Only now has a woman ever reacted angrily to hearing she is thought of as beautiful. Only now has a man been outraged at a genuine show of friendship. These have been commonplace amongst the emotionally deprived in the past, but now, like an epidemic, it has poisoned us all.
We take great sympathy on the Third World, rightly so. We send them our cheques and we pray for their future. But we are the poorer. They are only trapped by poverty, dictatorship or close-quarter combat. We are trapped by ourselves.
From that, there is no escape.
As a person existing in the real world, which I seldom do, I find that there are certain social constructs to which I am poorly accustomed. Small talk is as alien to me as would be riding side-saddle on an asteroid to you. I go out, drink my coffee or tea at the pub or at a house party, or event, or what else have you, and see people smiling, laughing and chatting away in a manner that I have no concept of. I see casual, soon-to-be one off lovers whispering to each other and can't fathom what they're saying. I see friends jabbering enthusiastically on subjects I don't understand. I am a loner, and accept myself thus. I'm happy.
Having said that, the privacy settings of my mind are virtually nil. My struggles, trials, thoughts and feelings are open book. So, that being the case, should anyone take the time to come talk to me at one of the aforementioned gatherings, they soon find themselves entangled in deep conversation. What they ask, I answer. Plainly and candidly. A man will know if I like his blazer. A woman will know she is attractive. If the conversation should veer into the arena of the deeply personal, I do not withhold answers. It can be as simple as asking me where my drink is. I'll tell them I don't have one, I'll tell them why. If they ask why I'm sitting by myself, I'll tell them.
The effect is not what might be expected. Sometimes they quickly lose interest, and retreat back into their preferred field of sweet nothingness. But often, and often is relative, they quickly open themselves to me.
I've seen tears begin to flow. I've seen eyes downcast as people talk. I've heard the tone of their voices drop as self-shame and regret begin to seize them. I know of their addictions, battles both fought and in progress, I know of their relationship traumas, their parents, their breakdowns. I then, more often than not, see them quickly escape back into themselves, and make for the nearest wine cask. Sometimes they avoid my instinctual reach for them, to comfort them, or to provide them with further conversation that, inadvertently, may ease their suffering. Sadly, it more often that not isn't long before I see them passed out, doubled over in their own sorrow or simply further galvanizing the walls in which they guard themselves.
The frequency of this occurrence is alarming. So frequent, in fact, that I can now barely look at a happy face without feeling some element of empathy for what may simply be a facade, a mask shielding great pain. I see a generation of financially secure and physically blessed people, lost and desperate, reaching out to shadows and mirages which offer them no solace. I see a generation in darkness.
We find outlets; some box, some dance, some act, some sing, some write...but ever the core of the pain is sheltered. Hidden for fear that someone might see it. What should be simply social groups converging over a mutual love for some practice becomes an angry clique, seeking out and attacking those who practice the same hobbies differently to vindicate themselves. We seem incapable of forming a group to work for the better of ourselves, without becoming a gang of thugs out to degrade another group who share our passion, albeit in a different light.
What is this fevered nightmare that bids to tear the beautiful people apart? What is this fear of exposure, when are lives are so easily shared and our pleas are so easily heard? We have all become addicted to being known about, but we are traumatized at the thought of being known. We treat connection as though it were poison. Love as though it were a toxin, or a cure upon which we invest too much of our own happiness. We fear showing ourselves, because we hate ourselves.
But why?
Rightly our compassion has swelled over the past few decades. We care now for the world's wellbeing than we ever have, we care more for those less fortunate now, and we fight for our beliefs. But too often we wage war on peaceful ground. We love everything except ourselves. Depression is anger turned inward, happiness is love turned inward. When we love ourselves, we give permission to others to love us.
So I can only deduce that this lack of permission we give to anyone to know us, comes from some deep-seeded pain and revulsion at our own selves. Only now has a woman ever reacted angrily to hearing she is thought of as beautiful. Only now has a man been outraged at a genuine show of friendship. These have been commonplace amongst the emotionally deprived in the past, but now, like an epidemic, it has poisoned us all.
We take great sympathy on the Third World, rightly so. We send them our cheques and we pray for their future. But we are the poorer. They are only trapped by poverty, dictatorship or close-quarter combat. We are trapped by ourselves.
From that, there is no escape.
