Damn, my knees are sore

My deepest apologies are matched by my deep regrets. It hurts me so where only a smile can deceive the cunning, but a broken yet wise heart can only sense. My great longing for meaning is without a source, i am without tangible caressing of its gentle and comforting hand. All day long I felt the absent hand of impending doom, and a doom so selfishly I wished upon the world. If my pain is not known, then who better to sympathize with me then those who are in utter ruin? So, in the swell of my worries I harboured evil in my heart like a monk in deep meditation. What am I suppose to do when the world demands physical and all I have is a profound love of the spiritual? I try to write these words impressed on my soul, yet I go to chapters and lo behold, there are the words written stright out of my heart. Can i sink any lower and dispair?

My belonging is with purpose yet the purpose i believe belongs to me is written out and on a shelf. Where do i find my solace?

I turn to God in a philosophical way. I ask, Lord what is my purpose? What is my call to life? And then i hear that hallowing sound deep in my nerves, that sound of absolute meaninglessness. As if the response of silence is the answer: To live and to die.
All the experiences in between just winds of a fleeting moment, a constant reminder of my finite self. But in my heart or in my mind i see a life immortal. Immortalized in my vision of a life worth living. I see that if I give myself a reason ill find that reason will unfold itself. If i envision a life of riches riches will unfold before me thus ill find that im rich beyond belief. As I define the lifestyle i wish to express I find in my definition my purpose. As all feels well in my soul i cannot help but feel that all this striving for purpose is for nothing, and i seek again on my knees “Lord, what is important?”

Its hard to focus. All the issues that seem insurmountable surmounting me. Im a mountain moved by the little faith of the demons in pursuit of my soul. I scream fuck, but no echo. I cry, but no tears. I fight for my life, but im alone.

Im in a cycle of hopelessness. Perhaps ive sided with that end. Perhaps ive gone so far beyond grace that hell is the place that finds its own in me. Im so cold that hades warms its hands by my heart. Though, here I am crying out to God, the warmer of my soul, the drummer of my heart, the ocean in my veins. What is my purpose? What is important?

Must he answer me? Am I so use to having pleasure of a response that I can’t brave the weather of silence to find that if i seek ill see it right before me? Am I so use to the sounds the world makes about looking a certain way or being a certain type, or having a certain thing that Ive neglected my own sound?

I open my eyes. My problems are still here. My debt is wild. My bank is empty. My stomach is growling.

Damn, my knees are sore.

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Gratitude

To those whom have taken the time out of their day to read, and like my posts, and to my followers I say a heartfelt thank you.

Your ‘like’ goes a long way inside these turbulent times.

Personal Reflection

Earlier today I had a job interview. The interviewer within his right picked my résumé apart. However, these résumés only reflect the good times. Literal, critcal, and simply good business sense he’d be as wise as a serpent to rip into it, but, perhaps if he had developed the intuitive sense of reading in-between the lines he might have seen the struggle that it took to put those experiences on paper.

I didn’t say anything except thanked him for his time.

I walked out, head held high. Pulled a chair at Tim hortons and asked myself, ever wonder what you’re going to do about a problem so deep that the skys a dot? I wrote this in my note book (I prefer longhand over typing), four pages of contemplation later I arrived at the same answer I discovered two-years ago:

Keep going. Give thanks. Keep climbing the word-ladder towards the top – keep writing

Era

I wake to another wake;

My senses’ perceive

This world

Through

This seconds

Angle

And

The walls’ established in my youth?

… ruins in this era

– C. D

Relax

Drained all the thoughts, emotions, and musings from my body. On a cloud of bliss, the sentimental feeling of youth, a time rightly titled the times of peace.
The calm serenity of an unwavering mind, a peace that sweeps over you as the toxins from the years worries pale the face and numb the senses, but then in a rush of cold to hot to warm it fades out like a cloud eclipses the sun, drawing the line of shade, and that shade comes over you, and you cannot help but embrace the coolness that it brings. Indescribable bliss.

Providence

I have Providence
By my side
He never leaves
Nor forsakes
Abides his will
In all my aims
I am victorious
Through every trial

What I mould
What I make
The world may
Try
To bend
And
Break
But try it so
What they think
They shall fall
They shall shrink
I stand tall
Above them all

They will learn
From my ways
For ive observed
The true way
To live my life
Above the gloom
If they scoff
They choose doom
Where they lay
I will walk
Because i do more
Than just talk
I think clean
I think grow
All eyes can’t spell
What I glow
I radiate
Truth and light
For darkness falls
By this might
And after all
Is said and done

I am victorious
Through every trial
Abides his will
In all my aims
He never leaves
Nor forsakes
I have Providence
By my side

– Christopher Dumitru

Taking Back My Time (for those who hate their job)

It doesn’t matter how long my break is-, two days, thirty minutes, one hour,- it is not long enough for me to call it my own. Though what little time is given to me, I find it ample enough to pursue fruitful pleasures. However, as good as it may be I recline back into the posture that is ill suited. Every smile never feels genuine, every hello is treated with contempt, every question immediately judged, though whatever genuine intention may be I find that Im casting my pearls to swine for minimum wage.
Why have I settled for this wage? Is it because I have no product of my own? Why, can I not create my own way to generate wealth? I CAN! Of course I need to move in that direction or else remain working for someone else in theirs.
There is no certainty in the economy, there is no certainty in the place I work. What then is practical? It is practical not to play it safe. It is practical to make my business the only option I invest in. It is practical to follow my dream and manifest it as reality.
So, when I take breaks, I can call it my own. I can say, its time for a break, be it an hour, thirty minutes, two days. Im in control which will make me feel empowered, richer, and confident.

I tend to end these thoughts at the end of “my break”, but no, not today, because Im awake, and Ive awakened, and Im no longer controlled by the machine of my secular obligation. Aware of my disposition, but not disappointed. Aware of myself and moving forward to what lays a head. Sweet, sweet autonomy, sweet, sweet freedom.
Already have I established my books deadline, so it will be, it will be, IT WILL BE, so help me God, or I will grow mad, and people will diagnose me as A. D. D, or depressed. Fortunately then I know that Im genuine, because these are but the symptoms of that deadly disease called “living a lie and calling it practicality”.

Restless Existential Imagination

This morning I sat with anxiety and focus. Though at the breakfast table of an establishment, I sat in the hurried silence of my inner turbulence. Four seats for guests with me, sat, invisibly, though too familiar – my inner family of wrestling wants.
I looked up to see a man directly across from me at another table enjoying his paper. I looked back into my book as Thoreau threaded my thoughts in his gift of insight, i looked up and now saw a different man. How long was my mind attuned to his words in the pages? I couldn’t have had turned more than two pages.This man was older than the first, and sat with no one. Again I retreated back into my book, but this time my focus was scattered, perhaps for a reason. Shortly through the doors of the establishment a little body of no more than five years old ran towards the old man, with her young voice greeted the old man. The old man, in his aged weathered voice, greeted her back. I heard in his voice the joy of being recognized by such a life, but with a subtle dread of having to entertain that which gave that little body life.

I turned back into my book, and read about Thoreau and something about railroads, but my mind was wandering. I saw in my minds eye horses wrapped up in horse stables, all young, strong, and restless. I saw in my minds eye the image of Aragorn soothing a war-torn battle horse, and setting it free. In the same breath of thought that horse symbolized existential dread; to keep captive a wild thing is to control its passions. Horses are wild, and in the wild they are free, and in the wild they find that they are in control of their passions. As I dwell within the confines of the two hours before I return to my stable for eight hours, I cannot help but feel myself buck, sneer, dread, and revile. I ask myself, am I the horse that needs to be set free, or Aragon?

On the way we passed an elementary school, it was recess and all the children were out and about. It was a sobering experience, it was sentimental in some former life. In the pocket of my heart I felt the sweetness of youth, the bitterness of the experiences to come, and the dread of my disposition passing them by. The windows though large were no different than the stagnant bars that made the lines in jail windows. Im no more in a different position than those who committed some horrible crime against society. I have committed the greatest crime against myself, being intertwined in sloth like rapture in my youth. I am now paying the price by working for someone who has in his youth done his due diligence.
Im not being punished, nor am I punishing myself, this is the lot I have given myself.

“You think youre living in the moment, you’re never living in the moment. Everything you do will come back to you tomorrow, but you will meet it there today.”

In the heat of my passion to escape the warty fingers of my secular obligation I found not by reason but by inspiration the way forward. A path laid out, by light, not illuminated by light, but by the personified person of light. He by his wisdom and mystery in words put in my mind the way. I said to those who asked where am I going, that I go where I am invited.
Its been too long to come to this knowledge, how much I have suffered to learn, and to experience fully the pain of birth and death, in the same life, within. So there is hope, and this is my hope, that these words I write, the messages I capture, the stories I will share one day will make its way into the heart of this world, and captivate, fill, and lead them to the path layer.

Where do all paths begin and end?
All we do is take a step,
With wandering feet
And restless imagination.

The world won’t embrace me with open arms, I also doubt that even the church will give me audience, but I know that the seeds I carry are potent. The book Ive been holding for a time can be likened to a seed, having had waited for the season to sow, and now that the season is on the cusp of arrival, I am preparing myself for the work ahead of me.

Abstract Existential Reality

Through the snow I couldnt help the thought of being physically well, being blessed with good health, though it can be better if I improve my water intake and thought life. But as I approached the edge of the grass I stepped onto pavement simultaneously as well as into an insight. A healthy body cannot suppress the disease that a sick spirit carries. This, I believe I possess, if it were not true would I have broken into a prayer led by the Holy Spirit that prays constantly for me? It was a moment that seems to carry itself over into this moment. It feels more than a memory, and deeper than an experience. Nonetheless, I have an ill spirit, and I need a doctor.
Turning over the thought of religion like a plow pulled by an oxen turning over soil, I find that what is revealed in the land of my heart is dry, cragged soil. No good thing suviving in it. It needs good, moist, bacteria rich soil to mix into it. I need to be around healthy people, or perhaps not, maybe I need to be around the lover of my land, the farmer of his crop, the tiller of his soil. Perhaps I need the soul tiller to breathe health, wealth, and happiness into the deep parts of my being.
I didn’t use perhaps randomly, I used it intentionally, because I have a doubtful mind, and a hardened heart. In my pride I know what is good for me. In my pride I can’t live. In my pride I will like the many examples before me, become baren and fruitless.

I know what will secure health in me that it is giving up the deep pool of material living, of sensual limitlessness, of disregarding the true source of wisdom, it is to give up being a fool. One who knows but continues to walk waywardly, that is the fool. The simple ignorant to misfortune, are not immune to its disease. Like the veil over the bride of chaos seduces, birthing a false courage of unbridled effort to lift and kiss the face underneath. But as the eyes open, their lips upon a beast, a devil a wretched thing, as misery, warts, and anxiety cover them from head to sole. The work of many years to remove the pain, and the scars de-soul, de-spirit them. To give up worshipping life, and to give up the god of life to the God who gave it. Though the rituals of life is fear of losing it. The fear of not having work to sustain one. That is the sweet sweet sound that this god finds pleasing, the deafening sound of fear, the aroma that it finds good the sweat of stress on ones brow.

Leaving the casket of work, I find repose in the repose of the ancients before me. Thoreau is but a babe to Socrates, and soon, by grace and providence I will be but a babe and Thoreau the ancient. I donot consider myself an intellect, but I do consider myself a Father of thought when I have finally birthed it by rite through my dieing by living out the principle it bears.