The Surburban cement-scape is becoming all too familiar to me in its brutally vacant rawness.
Everyday I wake up to a window with a humble tree tending to quiet sky-whispers, on a tiny plot of grass adjacent to the sea of asphalt. It is a daily reminder of the taxes which are rendered to Caeser, which goes into the infrastructure of the world's most cruel and backwards economy. So all flamboyant illustrations aside, it gets really tiring to drive from place to place, connected to a cellphone to direct my next destination. Intellectualizing the concept of 'space' and 'property' can relieve the tension, but only produces wormwood juice. Maybe it's relevant, but I can talk to myself using a string of disjointed climax thoughts which conceals the valleys in between, pretending to be expressing the highest truths when my fellow vessel detects a desperate scramble within my deepest being for connection and release. I have the most curious ability to detach and then reattach to humanity, but I often pass it by without notice, until my hunger pulls me back. The hunger is so human, and it aches for the purest divinity, but my appetite has been trained to receive an unnatural diet. If humanity were like the natural landscape over which we've piled layers of cement over in order to transport these steel modules which carry money-driven motivations and other fragments of illusions to build the Babylonian empire, as my heart of flesh has been paved over with stone, then where can it find the tiny crack through which a strong vine can break through and all the organic creatures of the earth can find refuge and life in its Majestic, Eternal Growth? Our hunger is this crack. I must'nt neglect this tiniest, lowest voice of my spirit whose cry is for the Vine.