Compost

You gotta vomit all your fear into the void, into the recycle bin of the cosmos, the compost pile of the galaxy.  Throw open all the windows of all the houses on all the streets of all the towns and cities and country-sides.  Your fear will be made into other fear carried by someone else, though your heart would never wish it on them.  The world is full of terribly dark things that most of us never wished on anyone else.  Even the ones who do are so tortured inside themselves they can’t find their way out of the maze in their heads.  You can always change your course of action, you just can’t change anything else.  You can pull words from empty space, make something out of nothing, realize what you thought was nothing was something all along, or vice-versa.  The finest balloon you ever saw contains nothing but air, nothing but a collection of molecules and dark matter.

Words are just words are more than words and help the Mind to travel abroad to distant shores of further thought, where you must be careful not to damage the universe.  Poets of past, where are you now?  Where have you traveled and what did you find there?  Will I receive an invitation to the Great Discussion at the table in the sky?  Perhaps I’d rather be the scullery boy who’s sent to fetch more bread, cheese, meat and wine, and as I serve you I secretly take notes that enrich the soil of the path I am walking.  Therefore no part of my heart will grow false and – leaving you to your glory and your gout – I skip on down my merry way with a clean whistle and a rucksack full of compost.

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