Category Archives: Writings

The Problem with Reality

The analytic relies on the concrete physicality of existence, taking comfort in what can be tangibly experienced and conducted through the human senses of sight, touch, sound and taste. To the analytic, the ideas of metaphysics lies laughably beyond the realms of true logic and physical reasoning. Yet one could consider, and rather should consider plausibility beyond the comfortable personality of physical deductions. What do I mean? Let us consider the basis for our knowledge of the world around us. We consider reality with a predisposed consciousness. A consciousness molded through the innate conditioning of individual existence, conditioning by way of culture and those sub-societies therein, as well as through religion, nurture and personal nature. Thus the concept of “what is”, such as the beauty of a color or image, or the terming of “disgusting” or “delicious”, relies heavily on these innate biases within the human “being”. And so we can say that even what should be concrete and physical is not entirely so. What I mean by this is simple enough, but massively complex in nature. The innate biases of an individual acts as a lens through which they might contact reality. Each human’s unique variances heightens their sensitivities in different directions and to different degrees. What one person might notice, another may not simply due to their own personal contexts.

So where I am going with this is simply to illustrate that even though we may see something, hear something, smell or taste something, all that we physically process is also processed in a metaphysical way. Our unconsciousness is activated whether it be through the olfactory, or past experiences which have left deep residues in the unconsciousness of our minds. And this affects how we process the physical world. It is a link between the physical and the non physical, things we can seemingly explain and things that seem insurmountable to explain. It adds complexity to the nature of the world and realities as a whole. It confuses the accuracy of separating the physical from the abstract.


Symbiosis of Perfection and Beauty

I wonder what it is, sometimes, to have beauty. Is it perfect physicality or perfection of mind, or both. Perhaps it is the unifying of both ends to make a stronger strand of human. That brilliant two-ply line that quivers and shakes but does not break when pulled. Wrapping it around your finger you can tie it in a knot in an attempt to keep it secure, but the process of time only causes it to tighten to the point of painful suffocation. The finger dead, you must cut it off, losing more than what you originally had.
Sometimes I try too hard for perfection and forget the benefits of an imperfect reality. Room to improve, hopes of betterment, and a mutual camaraderie with my fellow man. Perhaps perfection is a symbiotic relationship rather than a state of being. We can not actually be perfect without each other, without God or Christ, or depending on your world view, simply a being greater and more pure than oneself. What ounce of chance do we have even dreaming of aspiring to this position of spiritual liberation on our own. After all, one must have a liberator to be liberated. You see, perfection has a comparative quality, its candor often overlooked by way of the prideful self-serving mind. Naively we believe perfection is a state we can achieve through trial and error, eternal life, or death. All of these self manifestations, all of these venues for achievement, inherently wrong. Off putting, perhaps, but truthfully, perfection is only attained through another perfect being. Seeing as we never start there, we can not EVER achieve it alone.

Bound to Many

There’s a soft gentle breeze,

Stirring in the trees,

Like dusk,

Smells the cool morning before it’s first taste.


So the man comes wondering,

Quietly pondering,

A shadow,

Reaching out from beneath his master,


Gentle, my friend,

We are the same,

As the birds of the earth,

The  heat,

The rain,


In dusk, in dawn,

As the light ebbs and groans,

As moments of ourselves wax and wain with daylight’s age,


We are all the same,

To smell the breath of the morning,

Our shadows drawn to the tide of the light,

We are bound to it,

Our moods only moments leashed to the senses,

Bound to patterns that seem so senseless,


But bound,

Like the dew to the morn’

Like the shadow to the man,

And all,

Bound together,

Like the comings of a day.


No doubt.






The Crawler

Months after the fall, she crawled out of the abyss. Like a mutating slug, evolving from the muck.  The last time she had seen the surface her eyes had been searching for the stars, gazing up  at the ceiling of amassed, burning gas. Reaching out over millions of miles, the fire of the ember lights had inflamed her desire to grasp them, and she had done, but only to miss her footing  in her attempt and fall fathomless depths into the suctioning ooze.

For an eternal moment she had fought and struggled with the dark, until, unable to break free of the clawing goo, she surrendered her soul to the suffocating nothing that held her; a sensation-less grip that sunk into her bones and began to mutate her. Finally, on the very day she had become content with the abyss, she was freed to crawl out of it.

Onto the surface of the earth, once more she was. But so consumed and transmuted by her fall that, though she had longed to see the sky in its haze of heavenly lights, she could not stand it. The plush soil and foamy grasses cut into her skin like knives, for the gelatinous ooze had so weakened her flesh. Although she tried to cleanse herself of the dark, the smell clung to her, and her morphed shape would not but show her plight to the world. No longer could she reach out to the stars that laughed above her head; taunting her and beckoning to her to join them in their romantic home above the mortals. No longer was their light a glory, but rather, they burned her head with shame. So she no longer looked up, but crawled, crown bowed low; deformity’s crooked gate bending her like a reed. Until she became like the earth, and was once more enveloped by the night of the abyss.

For she had reached to the heavens, but in doing so saw not where she stepped.


archaic :  the apportioning of provisions especially to servants :  allowance
a :  the distinctive clothing or badge formerly worn by the retainers of a person of rank

b :  a servant’s uniform

c :  distinctive dress :  garb

d:  chiefly British :  an identifying design (as on a vehicle) that designates ownership


a :  one’s retainers or retinue

 b :  the members of a British livery company
:  the act of delivering legal possession of property
a :  the feeding, stabling, and care of horses for pay

c :  a concern offering vehicles (as boats) for rent

*Merriam-Webster online