16/11: When Lightning Strikes, Listen
Posted by: Captain Forehead
Crack! Crack! K-K-Krack! Krak!
The lightning strikes, again and again, so frequently the sky cannot go dark, no matter how deep into the night the slate of the imaginative mind has ventured. Under the eve of a dark shop, the fragile figure of possibility sat on a wooden bench, watching.
The wind screamed; the sky exploded; and, the man sat and watched, still. The elements of the storm trying to intimidate the planet assaulted, until the ground below trembled. The world above the world below roared for battle, trying to intimidate anything willing to come between their war. The man sat, watching, still.
The power surrounding his pliable presence was awesome. He wondered what his role could possibly be with all of the rage of unquestionable purpose pounding home loudly the insignificance of all between their ever-present significance.
Why the madness of the malleable mind meanders as it might is a monstrous mystery. Nonetheless, words come to life and bounce between the ears:
“I know what you should do; I have a way for you to make millions, easy. Maybe not easy, but you can do it.”
Was there a request for guidance counseling? Sure, the face behind the voice was successful, financially, but his path is not the path for he who was; his purpose is not the purpose of he who is; he is not thee. Yet the voice won’t quiet. There is a message.
“Have you thought about… Why don’t you… You should… You know what would work…” The voice of a drunk, a drunk whose fiscal policy is a success — though possibly improper — continues to bounce inside, guiding he who could be to a life of empty financial fanciness.
If only the mind would quiet. Listen to the roar, to the thunder, the crash of the lightning, the growl of the earth. Listen to the power. That is power, purpose, a path that calls. The path of wealth in envied objects does not call, and feels so weak, but it may be the path of influence, food and the retaking of the compound.
Listen. Look. There’s the answer. Who knows what it is, but there’s the answer. Listen.
Crack! Ruuumble! KRRack! KRAK! Crack! Crack! Roar!
Listen. It’s the answer.
Listen.
The lightning strikes, again and again, so frequently the sky cannot go dark, no matter how deep into the night the slate of the imaginative mind has ventured. Under the eve of a dark shop, the fragile figure of possibility sat on a wooden bench, watching.
The wind screamed; the sky exploded; and, the man sat and watched, still. The elements of the storm trying to intimidate the planet assaulted, until the ground below trembled. The world above the world below roared for battle, trying to intimidate anything willing to come between their war. The man sat, watching, still.
The power surrounding his pliable presence was awesome. He wondered what his role could possibly be with all of the rage of unquestionable purpose pounding home loudly the insignificance of all between their ever-present significance.
Why the madness of the malleable mind meanders as it might is a monstrous mystery. Nonetheless, words come to life and bounce between the ears:
“I know what you should do; I have a way for you to make millions, easy. Maybe not easy, but you can do it.”
Was there a request for guidance counseling? Sure, the face behind the voice was successful, financially, but his path is not the path for he who was; his purpose is not the purpose of he who is; he is not thee. Yet the voice won’t quiet. There is a message.
“Have you thought about… Why don’t you… You should… You know what would work…” The voice of a drunk, a drunk whose fiscal policy is a success — though possibly improper — continues to bounce inside, guiding he who could be to a life of empty financial fanciness.
If only the mind would quiet. Listen to the roar, to the thunder, the crash of the lightning, the growl of the earth. Listen to the power. That is power, purpose, a path that calls. The path of wealth in envied objects does not call, and feels so weak, but it may be the path of influence, food and the retaking of the compound.
Listen. Look. There’s the answer. Who knows what it is, but there’s the answer. Listen.
Crack! Ruuumble! KRRack! KRAK! Crack! Crack! Roar!
Listen. It’s the answer.
Listen.
Mr.Twister wrote: