Real Soil

There is this man-made refusal to accept things as they are — a refusal to live in the moment without complication. ThereĀ has to be motivations in a man’s mind, tensions of where to be, what to do, how to do it, and all of the barriers one must surmount in a rat race of a maze. He cannot let go, as humanity cannot let go, of this addiction to invent a second rate reality on top of the one that already exists before his eyes. Men choose to live upon imaginary lives and their sights and senses are coloured by hues and scents that simply aren’t there to begin with. Try to wake a sleeping man up and he will growl loudly. It simply requires too much energy to shuffle the beds of those who refuse to face the fact that much, if not all, of what they toil themselves with, suffer by, and grip with bitter affection, is a complete mirage. They will not stand on real soil, nor stand with their own legs. Their role is all they know, beyond the faint memory of something far more simple, far more near, and far more familiar.


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