What follows is simply a solidification of ideas; that is, putting to paper, and thus into immutable organization—which one cannot do in common speech, where fragments replace sentences, because whole ideas are expressed through more than just words, and where more ambiguous lexicon is employed—what i have been, since before i concluded my socially, and self—for what is social became my own will, too—coerced stay in the first part of the major institutions of education in this cultural region, and up to this exact moment, that i am now in the second part thereof, with increased intensity and resolve as i moved through time, contemplating.
It is at this moment that i finally feel strong enough in my own opinions, which i previously suppressed and ignored because of the aforementioned social and self coercion, to do what i have wanted and still want to do.
It is at this moment that i am seeing more clearly the paths that i want to follow, and also have more determination that those paths which i now more clearly see, are the paths that i indeed want to follow.
What all that i have written here implies, is that the actions which i soon describe, are actions about which i have thought deeply and am now able to in this moment carry out.
But before the actions can be detailed, a context in which the desire to perform them must be presented.
The changing of the environments in which humans live has forever been a marker of time; the keen observance thereof is a habit deeply rooted in all living things. A yearly reoccurring change by which all knittings of people keep and have kept time is the evolution of the natural, in the sense of nature, world—in which dirt dwells, and therein a seed sprouts, and therefrom grows a small green stalk, which soon becomes part of a verdant field; for a time this verdant field thrives—the stalks now a throng of flowers, but withers, when the cold wind blows and the sun shines less and the night comes sooner, and the flowers fall into the earth and become dirt, wherein seeds again sprout—the process is continual.
And so it is this change—often in my mind, through the ancient thoughts of others, divided into four major parts—that i deeply—mirrored in physical manifestations, such as terrible pains deep within the heart—desire to once again observe.
I desire to once again see the air from my body’s lungs therefrom expelled for that the amount of moisture of the air within me is greater than the moisture of the air into which it then becomes homogeneous.
But i do not only desire the amusing and more playful phenomenons
of the seasons—the horrid and miserable, too. How can one yearn to face oneself directly into Odin’s cold harsh breath while one has a terribly vexing sniffle? One must see the connection to the changing that is happening. One must look across through time at another part of the cycle, and realize that the event would not even occur thereat. It is a sign of the times; these i desire to be prominent.
And such indications are not so strong and impacting in this slope of the earth; they are even further reduced in the cement haven—in which cement thrives, not that which lives upon the cement.
And then there is that from nature—the biological need—that cannot even live thereupon, let alone weakly carry on. All of this atomic energy in the state of edible matter must be transported by way of metal ships across the tarred and rocky seas. Wherefrom comes what i this body feed? That i know not, but wish i to know.
For that what is verdant and nutritious here grows not—the solar pattern, and dwelling founded upon false stone the causes—the other major biological needs too suffer. The plainest yet most vital of meads, one berighted by Tyr, the other in which Jörmungandr swims. But here one does not taste the sweet holiday honey mead, from which a golden glow shines; it is instead brown from dirt and poor manufacture. This i can no longer drink.
Upon this sun beaten, stained stone lies the son of the leader of the Norsemen in Brunanburh—left in the place of slaughter, young at battle. Now his only use is a feast for the ravens—or perhaps the Crow. He has had great dreams of a learned folk, but has been exploited by the greedy, only so they can watch Freyja’s tears flow. His father was a coward to flee to the prow without him, but now too i must turn away from the rotting flesh, but not out of cowardice—the stench is simply unbearable.
To say that the leave from the institution would atrophy the frequency and intensity of neural firings is silly. A tool does not perform the work for one, but instead facilitates a faster and more efficient work. The Norseman’s dying son is not the only one available, either. There are others with dreams of an environment in which ideas are freely talked anent. There are others who do not lie dead on the field of spear-din.
Here i end my listing of grievances thereagainst, but i say that one could construct a Möbius strip thereof—endless, and eventually redundant—repetitive.
One who knows me well knows that i have a silly, yet questionably serious interest in the vikings. It is with a silly and serious tone that i say that i am departing with the viking spirit—individuality, self-reliance, strength, and even ignorance—which no one can claim to be without. I seek the wildest place—out- and inwardly.
Where is the wildest place?
Is it between double yellow lines?
Traveling faster than before, into the minds
Or maybe in the steps sound of a marching ant, unbound
Many a monk live without talking
Surely there in a monastery the wildest place could not be
But i saw it in the robes
The season was right for me
I am there
Here in the wildest place
In the winter i feel it most
But here in the wildest place, of heat does it boast
A rising red, coming dread
Its pocket worn cover—there across stream cold, crinkled veins
Examining with fingers, there i feel the wildest place—in winter rains
And so then my gaze is pulled to the left of the hallway
Drawn in by the two women standing
“Where is the wildest place?”
“It is here”
The wildest place
empty, packed space
This is the rising red planet,
in me and others hearts is a sinking dread, damn it
The idea of the wildest place is superficially paradoxical, for through wayfare i seek calm and balance; it is here—though—that i feel overwhelmed and overstimulated: there is never a moment of stillness—of movement and of din. The wildest place, then, is a place—physical and mental—of balance.
It is with great thrill that i follow the new path—with great worry that i follow the new path.
But i wish not to sunder the sib therewith. You are my sib—we are tied and i wish not to break this connection, but the dynamic will undeniably change.
And so now i say: feel free to join me in any way you wish to or can; i seek selfhood, but not alonehood. I asake not help.
