Time to Wake UP

Written: April 5,1995
Last Updated: 28 Oct 96

Here is a scene:
It is a race. A swim meet. A competition. One swimmer wins. He is happy. The losers are not. The winner looks back on his practice time with knobby nostalgia. Some of the others saturate their investment with waste, and still others grind their short teeth and white knuckles to blindly persevere in the face of inevitable perception. The outcome of the race has decided their previous struggle. The memory of the ordeal of preparation has changed to suit the presentation. The moment is not pure, it is clouded with ego, hope, lost hope, and the future. Water mixes with sweat. Chlorine covers the smells. Victory stinks.
Here is another scene:
It is five o'clock in the morning. The air is quiet. The sky sparkles faintly to prepare for the sun. Anticipation for the day. Youth is awake. Energy courses the vessels. The breath is clear. The juice is fresh and the eyes are white. There was no future, there will be no past. There is only vibration. It is fine. There is no judgment of yes and no, or the decision of each spontaneous step. It is the walk of life.
Let's tie this together.
Sometime it seems like I need permission to feel OK. Always the threat looms: The self-inflicting vise of cold hardness. I must rationalize. I must reason through logic, using the elements of the factual past, to earn my freedom from the skilled whip of guilt.
Procrastination has been a tool for success. Procrastination fertilized the ground on which ambition and drive are cultivated. Panic transforms into ultimate power.
Feeling are filtered, nudged, distorted and perverted. The Ego is fragile; and proud; and strictly speaking, downright embarrassing.
After carefully remembering the events of the past: the successes and failures, the efforts and evasions, the truths and the lies; the decision is made. Am I happy? Do I feel fine? Am I good? Is life getting better? Am I in pain? The answers to these and other unimportant questions just like them, can only be found in the intellectual resources of a civilized diseased psyche. For true health is devoid of even the questions.
I have a dream.
Wouldn't it be nice to feel the moment devoid of the rote noises? How about being able to concentrate on the movements of the moment, without remembering a list of things to do, things that should be done, things that never were done, things that never will be done, things, other things, more things? This doesn't sound like such a good dream, but only a dream devoid of static abrasions. This dream is merely an exaggeration in response to confining tensions.
I have been writing long enough. I forget the point. I never cared anyway. Only on an obsessively retentive level of ill-conceived beauty.
Another day here, another day lost. I am almost ready to wrestle time. The bugle sounds. The birds chirp. The cars blare their horns.

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