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Sorry for being so sporadic and posting intermittently without my normal formatting, alas… had a passing thought on the highway on the weekend, here to share.

I was looking at a tree on the side of a highway and thought: imagine that we found a tree could consciously unsink its roots from the ground. That the tree, being alive, was autonomous… would we ask it why it kept rooted and even cared about the world for so long? Why not let the foundation of the world slip, in such a careless world?

maybe we’d ask the tree

its history, to see the sonderness

of the tree. All of the lives it has witnessed come and go, the accidents it has seen, the disputes between drivers, and the death, repair, and rejuvenation of the seasons.

We might begin to stop, and spectate, and see that all around us are living beings. That we live in a living world. We don’t live in our minds.

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It strikes me odd that the human race, inevitably, has categorized, demonized, condescended, and degraded people based on skin color, sexual orientation, gender, etc., as though one race, sexual orientation, or gender is somehow the default “human” and the other is “alien”. When, in our every day, with our opposable thumbs and biologically similar extremities to the aliens we produce in Hollywood, we haven’t come to the recognition that we – yes WE – are likely the aliens. All of us. Aliens to this planet, for all we know and maybe the mission that eludes us is this simple recognition – that despite our external differences, our internal similarities and our external similarities far outweigh anything different.

If only, stripped of our clothing and our cultural fare, we might see, with our eyes, hearts, oddly shaped sexual organs, and our pudgy, protruding bellies that we are alien, even without being from another planet. All aliens. Aliens to each others’ languages, nations, cultures, and religions at least. All on this crazy planet. All fervently in love & hate; whichever we so choose.

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Seas of sorrow

ebb and flow

putrid stench of

Hatred

Yet we believe…

Somehow a sad face

realer than a happy one?

Happiness, a farce;

an illusion of the mind?

Cultured to be subdued

disengaged or eschew?

Yet we see panhandlers

abroad, viscerally sad,

broken

believed to be fakes

cheaters of the system

standing on the median

broken

– n.v.

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For why is suicide such a grievous wound?

A human, entity of autonomy and rationality, built upon by themselves and by others, created from foundation to expiration, has chosen to undo what has been done. To destroy the creation in despite of itself in disregard to themselves and all of the other contributors to their autonomy and rationality. They’ve chosen a blank slate rather than the one with etchings all over. And this – this, is the real no-bullshit sadness that comes with suicide – to think that emptiness prevailed. To think that, despite the inherent humanly flaws of everyone, the little etchings weren’t worth it after all. That, somehow, the mind had convinced the raw bodily baggage to finally concede. That, the semblances of memory and shared experience we call life, was not greater, in a moment, than the alternative. The evil multi-armed demon of depression had deleted another idol of nostalgia. The sad, secret, sinister voice inside manifested and eviscerated the exterior.

– n.v.