ten years ago

ten years ago, words were meaning, the written records of the great thinkers and writers expressed truths that i could only imagine and never detail in my own way, i was addicted to the pages and pages of unending fascination with the workings of the collective mind, unveiling the realms of the meaning and purposes of every facet of existence. in the same breath the same words i read my own failure and incompleteness, my own inability to feel and think and act like the chosen the lucid and the enlightened. in all of the mess and massive amounts of description and data and chapters and volumes of ancient and new age wisdom, i stopped to take a real assessment of what it all meant the why to the what and the how to their done and did that and realized there is no voice to be heard but the one within, the lone cry of the self exiting the herd, leaving the pack of yapping beasts to find a solitary way, not a right or wrong place to be, a place here and now and never other than who i am. what makes a soul incomplete, unfinished, apart but the very words detailing someone elses experience that cannot be your own. when man found language, he created the tower of babel and from that tower all manner of insanity was born, first and foremost, that one mans thoughts are more valid than anothers. that any amount of thinking or reading or listening can bring you closer to the final truth, there is no other, brother, sister mother father friend or foe, but the one who sees these as themselves. who am i, the truth, is what i hear and what i write, not for anyone but my only voice to listen  as it leaves one last time from my heart, never new or true again.