dark water and pale skin...

sitting in a dull silence broken only by the low hum of the air conditioner as it struggles against the still pervasive heat of four a.m. in the deep burning south. the wings of insects beat against the thick moist air, hovering desperately. high overhead, like the sound of fragmented thunder, a few scattered planes disappear, their flashing wingtips mixing with the polluted light of stars. I cough and it echoes like a gunshot in a tomb. the long nights of summer loom, the long sweaty days. and with the rising of the sun comes the sinking promise of more, more rippling stretches of greasy asphalt, more hours spent pushing against the stone, more loss of the soul. with the dawn comes car engines firing, neckties and morning news, traffic and routine. with each new day comes more of the same. we waste our time too lightly here in the early moments of the twenty first century. we are satisfied with what glistens on the surface; we do not seek to know what bubbles up from the stinking depths, we do not wonder about the shadows flickering just out of sight, just out of comprehension.

and so the illusion of calm becomes the dream of safety. it seems as though we are happier with a well told lie than we are with the truth: we would rather believe that the polished glass shard slicing deep into our empty palm is a diamond. and eventually, that terrible shining object will be a diamond in the mind of the bloody victim; it is far easier than facing the reality of a handful of worthless broken glass. it is better to be decieved, it would seem, than to accept the deception. better to be herded, to be controlled, to be disinformed. better than fighting for the truth, no matter the ugly actuality. far easier to be told that all shattered glass, all broken promises, all suffering, all the cruelty of humanity, all of our failures, all of it, have become merely facets on the face of a perfect diamond, reflecting the death of our inherent outlaw individuality.

it is up to us not to be satisfied with hollow comfort. it is important that we refuse to accept the perception of the truth as the truth. we must always examine motives, we must look behind the curtain, we must ask questions, we must question answers. we must look to the poems, to the songs, to the paintings on the cave wall for honesty, for there we find ourselves. there we find our essences as humanity unsatisfied with the cold touch of the lie, desperate to understand those shadows, that broken glass, the dull silences and the rumble of thunder hanging above our mortal heads.

there we find the jewel.