Why is neglect not cruelty? I mean, it’s not hard to see that living in an age that prays to gold, how man can ignore anything that falls outside their narrow scope. How we can build little pink bubbles & shore them up with false value. Anything, anything we can use to deny the physical realities of the tangent world – the world that is; from wherever it’s viewed, common to all beings – we snatch at. The thicker the bubble we can build out of denial & false value, the safer we imagine ourselves to be … Imagine!

The thicker the bubble we believe we can build around what a friend of mine likes to refer to as the Self, the conscious, the thinker the blanket that buries the soul. I’ve never really considered that there are people without soul, for me, it’s the deepest thing within .. a glowing spark that is more than consciousness. More than Self.

When I sit around and watch humans, not so much in activity, but in inactivity .. in what can only be a rapt consciousness of their Self, I realise that we truly are the scum of the Earth. And I realise that there must be something wrong with me.

To sit and watch how this scum can sit and watch a poor defensless puppy – this thing that lives but didn’t choose to live – be mistreated through neglect by another human Self; how these noble people can shut out the cruelty .. sit and watch, while their Self builds another layer of rose-gold-guilt around their consciousness. How chairs are turned, TVs turned up, awnings drawn down … I cannot find the right words for this.

My complacency makes me complicit in this cruelty. Except that I am not! I cannot see that this complacency in what they call misfortune can allow for a soul in man. There is obviously something wrong with me!

So, as I draw in my head and confront this cruel misfortune – and all the doors swing open and the blinds rise and the chairs turn back around – and once my meddlesome deed is done and my soul is lit by darkness once again … Then these shuttered, souless, pitiful human Selfs converge upon me with their “thanks” & “good onya buddys”, with their empty dead consciences in tow .. and my eyes spit contemptuous disgust into their rose-gold worlds and they slink back and paint another layer of rose-gold-guilt upon their bubbles, turn their TVs up, pull down their blinds and burn another piece of their soul for the benefit of their Self.

Mendooran October 2018

‘Blame lies at the door of those who have so tortured and overheated their brains to believe, that the chief weakness … is a want of great & officious remedies.’ – Thomas Beddoes