Wedged...
Wedged In the Mind's Soltice, you're in a cabin.
and there's another person, in another cabin.
you are only about, what you deem to be about a mile apart.
the way the crow flies.
as there is tumultuous terrain surrounding you for miles, much less the ravene
vertically placing this person a contour below you.
you are not going anywhere.
425, 631, or 339 miles from somewhere. anywhere.
this month and the 4 months of white hell that preceeded it, see you socked in.
only 4 inches of light can make it in through the top of the windows.
comfortable you are in life's present needs, though disaster or peril is remotely probably.
you are only about, what you deem to be about a mile apart.
the way the crow flies.
as there is tumultuous terrain surrounding you for miles, much less the ravene
vertically placing this person a contour below you.
you are not going anywhere.
425, 631, or 339 miles from somewhere. anywhere.
this month and the 4 months of white hell that preceeded it, see you socked in.
only 4 inches of light can make it in through the top of the windows.
comfortable you are in life's present needs, though disaster or peril is remotely probably.
in that it's a given, but not a daily concern.
you musn't be heedful on when you can leave, ... depart, when springtime flourishes.
the journey that was to get there, is irrellevant, as is where you are going next.
the past is not the responsibility of where you are now, and the idle daydreams of where
you eventually want to be, only draw upon what you'd like the present to be.
it's instinct. an instinct that was bore long before you were aware of your subconcious
core.
but there, across the inhumane screen of frigidity, is whom?
no idea who this person is.
after so much time in the blizzard of what's been a netherworld existence, this may all
be a frozen mirage. a mirage never expected,
not here.
not now.
this is your life, now. to survive in polar. why get sidetracked on such a trivial
matter on what's become the staple of your life:
everyday. and every hour.
pondering the activities of your omnipresent and physically vacant citizen.
the person in the cabin.
someone consumed by you...
someone attached to your routine...
someone whose own misstep trips your psyche...
someone who sets the rhythym to which your heart beats...
and someone whom you can't truly see, or touch, or feel, much less confirm.
but is it far more (sad), that the other person can't see you?
why, for months, smelling the fires.
hearing the rifles.
shooting at the same game.
both of you sharing the same maniacal void that has been harbingered to you both by, and
as, the Arctic wind.
all you've really known is this daily, consuming (focal point) in this infertile,
sterile, white, and slothy life.
the sterile whiteness often blinds your reasoning intellect.
with this person's coincidental rendevouz with thine... seperating the loud, singular,
bleached blur.
and now setting the tempo in life's arrangement.
it's these basic things. the things that make up your standard automatic structure,
....that can calibrate the everyday thought.
the realization of where you are at, may have caused some complatiency to mentally
depend on the preservation and observation of the neighbor,
the one neighbor you have, in this white blind of life.
how selfish of you, to not expect, nor imagine the absence of the irrelevant and faint
interaction with this coincident, and it's proximity to you, thereof.
in actuality, will the absence of your existence, effect this person's own needed cache
to get through the winter.
out here ...it is personal survival that counts.
not the thought, nor possibility that this neighbor is at the other end of your sanity
lifeline, or will be able to come to your rescue.
...to your rescue, not because your cache has run empty, nor your absence of salt
rations, or rations of wood.
your life, incarcerated by your placement within the
... landscape
... the season
... your decisions
... your inevitability
... limiting your ability for you tow your psyche across the snow pack.
for the knowledge and acceptance of this outer entity, has been rescue enough. hasn't
it?
a far greater lifeline has been unknowingly cast unto.
greater than the stock of lynx and rabbit meat. salts. or furs.
the mental self. the one tactic you never expected to be so vital. detailed. intricate.
and focused.
so much so, the nightmare of silence...
the silence of a smokeless redolence...
the void in an empty valley...
the emptiness of depending on one's self...
can quick freeze the veins of the "body automatic"...
oh, the selfish insanity of the absorption of this satellite being.
for the discovery has become, to be, maybe, and afterall, yourself...
in the other cabin.
far below.
and a mile way, by what you deem.
the way the crow flies.
treacherous... why , has tumultuous time been spent during life's winter,
decyphering, and dependant on thines spirit satellite...
and not reaching forward to the bookend of the solstice,
and not depending and concerning 'the' hereto.
you musn't be heedful on when you can leave, ... depart, when springtime flourishes.
the journey that was to get there, is irrellevant, as is where you are going next.
the past is not the responsibility of where you are now, and the idle daydreams of where
you eventually want to be, only draw upon what you'd like the present to be.
it's instinct. an instinct that was bore long before you were aware of your subconcious
core.
but there, across the inhumane screen of frigidity, is whom?
no idea who this person is.
after so much time in the blizzard of what's been a netherworld existence, this may all
be a frozen mirage. a mirage never expected,
not here.
not now.
this is your life, now. to survive in polar. why get sidetracked on such a trivial
matter on what's become the staple of your life:
everyday. and every hour.
pondering the activities of your omnipresent and physically vacant citizen.
the person in the cabin.
someone consumed by you...
someone attached to your routine...
someone whose own misstep trips your psyche...
someone who sets the rhythym to which your heart beats...
and someone whom you can't truly see, or touch, or feel, much less confirm.
but is it far more (sad), that the other person can't see you?
why, for months, smelling the fires.
hearing the rifles.
shooting at the same game.
both of you sharing the same maniacal void that has been harbingered to you both by, and
as, the Arctic wind.
all you've really known is this daily, consuming (focal point) in this infertile,
sterile, white, and slothy life.
the sterile whiteness often blinds your reasoning intellect.
with this person's coincidental rendevouz with thine... seperating the loud, singular,
bleached blur.
and now setting the tempo in life's arrangement.
it's these basic things. the things that make up your standard automatic structure,
....that can calibrate the everyday thought.
the realization of where you are at, may have caused some complatiency to mentally
depend on the preservation and observation of the neighbor,
the one neighbor you have, in this white blind of life.
how selfish of you, to not expect, nor imagine the absence of the irrelevant and faint
interaction with this coincident, and it's proximity to you, thereof.
in actuality, will the absence of your existence, effect this person's own needed cache
to get through the winter.
out here ...it is personal survival that counts.
not the thought, nor possibility that this neighbor is at the other end of your sanity
lifeline, or will be able to come to your rescue.
...to your rescue, not because your cache has run empty, nor your absence of salt
rations, or rations of wood.
your life, incarcerated by your placement within the
... landscape
... the season
... your decisions
... your inevitability
... limiting your ability for you tow your psyche across the snow pack.
for the knowledge and acceptance of this outer entity, has been rescue enough. hasn't
it?
a far greater lifeline has been unknowingly cast unto.
greater than the stock of lynx and rabbit meat. salts. or furs.
the mental self. the one tactic you never expected to be so vital. detailed. intricate.
and focused.
so much so, the nightmare of silence...
the silence of a smokeless redolence...
the void in an empty valley...
the emptiness of depending on one's self...
can quick freeze the veins of the "body automatic"...
oh, the selfish insanity of the absorption of this satellite being.
for the discovery has become, to be, maybe, and afterall, yourself...
in the other cabin.
far below.
and a mile way, by what you deem.
the way the crow flies.
treacherous... why , has tumultuous time been spent during life's winter,
decyphering, and dependant on thines spirit satellite...
and not reaching forward to the bookend of the solstice,
and not depending and concerning 'the' hereto.
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