The Phantasmagoria

A human may arrive gently

Into the world.

Under the promise

Of a vast sky.

 

But as he begins to take shape

The world takes shape around him.

 

Shortly after his emergence upon the scene

He is . . . catapulted . . .

Into a phantasmagoria,

After which his life will never be the same.

 

After which,

His life will never again

Be his own.

 

A world of beliefs

Doctrines

Rules

Morals

Concepts

Notions

Methods . . .

 

All things seem real to him

In this phantasmagoria.

 

Shadows

Harden into stone.

 

Sounds

Coalesce into words.

 

Concepts

Condense into commandments.

 

Without the slightest notion

Of when it happened . . .

 

Without the slightest notion

Of how it happened . . .

 

He becomes a part

Of the phantasmagoria.

 

He learns the names

Of this and that.

 

He imbibes the ways

Of the new world.

 

He leaves the domain of Nature

And becomes a man of society.

 

He suffers intently.

Yet he does not recognize the suffering

As something foreign to him.

 

For those around him

Are suffering equally as much.

 

And potions and ailments

Are on offer at the street corner

To soak his wounds.

 

The wounds, however,

Become deeper.

 

The human moves further into the society

In search of more street corners.

In search of more potions.

 

Each of his actions,

All of his pursuits,

Regardless of their nature or content,

Are fundamentally an attempt

At but a moment’s relief

From the suffering.

 

He can no longer decipher

The . . . edges . . .

Between Himself

And the World.

 

He becomes a professor of the concepts.

A scholar of the language.

A waiver of the flags.

A devotee of the culture.

 

In his later years,

He searches desperately

For a way out.

 

And he searches

In the only place he has known.

 

He searches

In the very place

That gave birth to his desperation.

 

Which leads him further

Into the abyss

Of suffering.

 

He craves messages of hope.

But any such message

That arises From The World

Is but sweet-talk.

 

Imprisoned in the world

The humans come to each other

And speak pleasant thoughts,

As they huddle beneath mushroom clouds

Of devastation.

 

Never having understood

The non-negotiability

Of the Seriousness that nature demands.

 

Never having understood

The feeble value

Of their predilection for action.

 

Never having realized

What the world

Has done to them.

 

Never having found

The longing

For Truth.

Namaste.