Obliterator

I haven't been able to think lately, my mind's locked up. My nocturnal tendencies have let me see the sun rise and the mind set, and I haven't been able to awaken the choice of words within me. Anxiety and fear, my oldest travelling companions are, as always, riding my shoulders, reading what I write, and whispering in my ear.

I ignore them. I've been listening to something else. The earth under my feet has been speaking, talking, screaming. Hurricanes and earthquakes, tornadoes and droughts. We've become less at home and more a pest, and our hostility toward the planet is being brought back. The mood of the planet is one of revulsion. Every step on green grass, I feel more and more I should not be here, that my mere prescense is a barely tolerated insult.

This voice of concern overwhelms at time. But I cannot say Yes. I cannot fix this problem, because I am part of it. This is not a win-win situation for anyone except those who will be dead before the worst comes to pass. The earth will endure. We will not.

And yet, I still cannot put to words how I feel, and what is in my mind. Convolution has taken over evolution, and sense has gone out of the world. I've been searching for inspiration, and reading advice on where this elusive quarry might be found.

Some say I should look to God for answers, for inspiration. That I need only accept Him and everything will become clear. Necrophelia has never been a part of me, and it's not so much a matter of accepting Him as becoming subservient to those who dispense Him like cheap sodas on a Sunday afternoon. Christianity is big business to the peddlers of faith, and I will not become part of, nor associate myself with, that hypocricy.

Inspiration comes from deeper places of light and dark. Where the cataclysm hits and black and white meet; this is where shades of gray are born and words and images take shape. On the brink of despair is where hope is born, and from this juxtaposition of opposing emotion... this is where inspiration springs. In a world of despair, there is no reason or wont to write, to record. In a world of hope, nobody worries about their thoughts being forgotten.

And from the words come music. Music from the mind or music from the heart or music from the instrument. Raindrops thrumming on the ceiling or drumsticks tapping out the arhythmic tempo, 1,2... 1,2,3. Music is the evolution of inspiration. From words and base sounds come music, and from music comes culture.

And suddenly, I'm on the brink. From culture comes humanity... so then with the writers block, then does humanity falter, and with humanity faltering, does the earth not reject us?

We must stop denying that everything is okay. We must find our inspiration.

Look there. A crack has formed.