I am never more powerful Than when I have been ruled out.
For Your Consideration What use is there in writing? What does print actually achieve? Nothing. Ink is powerless in this broken society, indulging in media manipulation and egotism, neglecting the simple, natural, beautiful things in our small world. Books, once the appreciated resource of the both the powerful and the poor, are discarded. People don't understand that they are discarding weapons. Ink alone is useless, yes - but words, malleable words, when manipulated into the correct combination have a power beyond advertising, beyond money, beyond brittle fame. They have the power to persuade. I once read that anyone can kill a man, provided of course they possess a severe lack of moral stamina; but with words, you can convert that very same man, a man you despise, an enemy to your perspective and transform him into an ally. Books are the whet stone for our linguistic swords. They keep our word banks brimming and, most importantly, train us to discover new combinations of word patterns, to articulate, persuade and convince. Ample people search fruitlessly for years attempting desperately to achieve their goals through reckless and misguided persistence of small objectives independently. Commonly, the solution can be reached through the work and skills of other people, in that environment - if only their help can be enlisted. Manipulation through words - the capacity to convince others that their own actions are not only implemented by their own thought process' rather than the idea you planted, but that they are benefiting from the same actions while you quietly profit. Multiply that scenario several times over and you possess a system whereby your every need is met through the assistance of others. All because of the right words. Now that, that ability, is true power.
Why does my mind examine itself when my body begs for sleep? Thoughts churn and collide violently in my fatigued and dissipated shell while whatever silent existence lies dormant between attempts to console those recklessly blunt and ludicrous fantasies. Slowly my body is seduced into them too, coaxed out of its respite and captivated by the ambitions of, not my mind I realise, but my heart. And slowly the potion of my tears drags me under the consoling duvet, until the next bittersweet night.
We collided like a cadence Amidst a cacophony of anguish And for that I will be forever grateful
The Canvas I see before me an opaque and glossy window. Apathetic. It does not respond to my advances. It merely exists, stubborn and inflexible Provoking my brittle resolve. I know I can shatter it's impregnable plain with the correct application of patience and insight. The blunt nib of my determined pen grows frustrated for on the other side is the view that I want you to see with me. If only I could find the words.
