Journal Entry 2- Pawns of Satin
Sometimes it seems like I go through life with a sigh upon my lips. The world rains and blows its wind my way, so that it touches the fibers binding my heart. Passerby scurrying to and fro down the streets behind me, vertical to me, and the one which horizontally sits before me . . . intersecting with the vertical street looks like an ant-house. Everyone is so busy, leading their own full lives, a straightforward march, a roll call of energizing business. None of them can stop and look anywhere but in a direct line, keeping their eyes, hearts as ants own them, ears, and movement directed where their mind is. No one stops to glance up, not even a furtive, quick one, for what would they do if unable to make the attempt at pressing their strength upon the purpose their lives seem to offer them . . . with their own selves at the crux of this purpose. The agenda they follow does not include anyone or any factored element except the unique role, one light for which they live, like a beacon that shines only to draw the loner to a destination. These lonely ants, one by one they hurry. . . scurrying together in a conglomeration of smashed cars, people, and screaming children, some who are wailing for their lost guardians, all running and hurrying, creating havoc in a pot that will eventually boil over with trauma. Eventually, when here is no reason to live other than personal survival and creation of utopia for oneself, the lid will blow from the pot.
Slowly the pot melts. God, His Glorious Wisdom was not distracted when he created Heaven. Hell meant to be the opposing magnet. Angels in Hell. Wrathful, holding long, scorching spatulas, they stir the pot of the Earth. As I look around at the fury, I wonder, why anyone has bothered to place philosophies of great men and women who wrote about equilibrium of good and evil forces in our textbooks. There’s no such example here on Earth, save for that of pure evil.
People are being stirred by Hell, not by Glory! Every person in this pot wallows like a broken log in the mess. Babies are born into it and never become seasoned to have good flavor. Every element in the pot is thrown into the pot with careless abandonment, each father, mother, friend, neighbor, slewed out of the hands of fire from Satan’s assistants. Satan’s pawns, brought together under the scarlet eyes of sly malice, are parts in a machine. Cogs of acquisitive monsters, robots programmed for the task of accomplishing one mission for the execution of the Devil, which the Devil disguises as personal gain, wealth, and tenure in a prestigious office. No goal other than this, and no compassion, like as though everyone were mechanized. They wind up, go through life, and greedily try to own life. They forget everyone else, abandon procreation, abandon motherhood, abandon baking cakes for their neighbors as a welcoming gesture, because, it does not fit into their schedule. Schedule. I hate that word.
I put my head in my hands and start to sob, while the echoing, slight, nearly delicate wind speaks to my sorrow. The element is so quiet, and plays upon the roaring madness of my heart, as though in a manner it seeks to soothe me with quiet. Yet the echo of it speaks of my loneliness as I watch the passerby of night fly by me with a rapidity from which I feel terribly detached. An empty, longing, aching gnaws upon the fibers of my heart, fibers being played with as though they were the strings of a harp, by the gusty wind.
I go through life sighing sometimes. Tonight I am sobbing, though. Where are you my dream? I’m so precariously far from it. I can’t think. My head some pressure cooker got hold of, smashing it.