Bring It Back
Bring back the old gold waves that once rushed through this sea now a desert. Bring back the times when there was a sense of realness and truth behind all that there was and all that will be, a divine reason that supported the endless universe upon its shoulders and smiled as it did so. Bring back the old days.
But is this fruitless nostalgia? I’ve asked myself this many times, and many times has the implications of this inquiry startled me. To think that this longing was nostalgia, pure nostalgia! Oh, what a hopeless image. Must you, the doubter, take this precious yearning from me as well?
Enough doubting, even if true, for the soul’s speech outweighs the chattering of the mind, outweighs the intellectual justifications that seeks to extend the reign of the billiards. That reign has given us nothing but despair, and yet it is championed as the achievement of all mankind. The irony, lost to the worshippers of the billiards, that the pinnacle of humanity is our discovery of ultimate meaninglessness. Not even the most pitiful creature could emulate the degree of how pathetic this is.
No, enough with the billiards. Enough with this ever infecting fear that, no matter how many seas are sailed, no matter how many nations are conquered, no matter how much glory is attained, the universe could look upon us as an indifferent as an earthquake and shatter us at are pinnacle. And in the wake of the collapse, the billiards worshippers would say, drunk with pride and self-righteousness, “See? See? It’s all for naught. Glory is a myth. Ecstasy is an accident. Your purpose is to convince yourself that there is a purpose, though there be none.”
And how odd those sentiments can be, that they are peddled by the less-than-perfect. They project their imperfection upon the naysayers, calling them blinded and lost and broken-hearted when such qualities can be applied to them as well. If only they had great strength so that the pious ones could rightfully curse them, but such is not the case. They deserve no cursing but pity, for they are lost children who had been dealt a poor hand in the game of life, unaware that the poorest can reach godliness if the correct steps are taken.
But enough of them. They are too intoxicated by proving that their theoretical palaces are made from stone and not glass that they distract themselves from the good path, the conscious path, the meaningful path. They do not feel as I feel, or perhaps they do but deny and suppress the sensations so true. They do not feel the longing for the real.
Yet their points are dully noted. Is my yearning for past glories nothing but nostalgia? If I were to bring it all back into the present, would the triumphs and glories and gods and so on be as they were, or a pale copy? Would my efforts not tap into the source of their permanence and thus produce a zombie with rotting skin and broken teeth? A monstrosity?
One could not know, but feel. If one were to tap into the permanence by some miraculous means the they would have no doubt in their hearts, for did any hero who toppled the odds allow even the slightest hint of doubting to enter the house of their soul? No. They shut out all doubt and went for the kill, striking true as if it had been written and decided long before that he would win. That is the sign of one whose deeds have permanence.
If a day comes when we plug ourselves into that source once again, then the sun will surely shine brightly. For now, many face the horizon, hoping for morning rays.
