Winter is coming

A distorted reality is now a necessity to be free.
Let's talk about life for a while: The conflicts, the craziness, the sound of pretences falling all around.
I do not know the answers to the universe I fear, so drown me cold and find your perfect man dear.

MSN screen names, among so many, with every voice crying out to be heard, putting forth some little snippet of wisdom that struck home. And a rant can stay true only so long as the venom is good, after which it dribbles from the mouth in sickly spludges, and leaves but a hint of the kill. The distaste, the despair, the dismay. That so man are countered by just delight is yet another cruel trick played not by gods but by men. Like so many other tricks, that leave us with a sour taste in our mouth. To thank we have none, none but those as are our brothers, our sisters, our ancestors.

One need not be from beyond the stars to be alien. But the human race, studied from without or within, is like a subject any other. Intriguing and discouraging, exciting and surprising, yet in the end droll. Where men race, for food, for love, for coin. A social animal worse than the beasts it tames. Physically superior, morally inferior. Or perhaps it is the other way around. Or perhaps it's the coin that spins on its side, forever threatening to land one way or the other.

Men, and men of wo, have both in their quests forgotten what they quest for. They live to dream, but of ever thousand dreamers, there is not but one that will. Will, what?

Foul moods that drift in from nowhere, dark clouds of nothingness that can settle upon the soul. Stifling it, so that the body that is whole and hearty can be a constraint. The heat batters the head, the crown hangs limp past the shoulders in dark heavy strands when the clouds beat upon it with their tears.

To stand aloof, above men and their petty worries yet amongst them, as a part of them. The senator from Gladiator, who spoke : "I do not pretend to be a man of the people, but I do try to be a man for the people". We all dream, of the changes we can make, born with the potential. The eye that sees, or is made to see. A world grown smaller, closer. And yet the demons of men haunt us, hold us back with their worries and their bowstrings of gold.

When death is feared, is it truly for it is the unknown? A rollercoaster that cuts through high trees to plunge into the darkness beyond is the unknown. A closed exam paper is the unknown. Both with an idea of what lies beyond. But such is death, and for those that believe there is nothing beyond, perhaps it is to be feared less. And such thoughts can leech from life what makes it worth the trials. The, wossname, tribulations. What fear is there, but what we leave behind incomplete. Such things as make us weak. As does love. As does family. As does honour, a pride. But without such weakness, most the intrigue of man is gone. Most the intrigue, and all the conflict.

Men, and those of wo, so close yet so far apart. Them as are sharp and blunt. And them as see the divisions shimmer and blur, while those with the unpassable chalk line between. All, three, subjects of much thought, but as the venom fades, and the bite is left but of sharp fangs and old blood, perhaps now is not the time.

And oft do I speak where it is not my place. And there where speak I must, I should. That is where the words that should flow as a salve fade into a jest ill-timed. Or fade, period. Into the void that takes what is most needed and turns it into perilous smoke. But the walls have ears, as do the fools. Sometimes, talking to a brick wall, tis not so bad.