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Bullion Grey
Imaginateur


Odd...

oddity of ironic illusion

An oddity of ironic illusion, he went from Him in one shape and returned in another convolution. Knowing that one cannot increase the love nor escape the notorious sin of men, he ventured into the hazardous world of existence.

Kissing danger and confusion with the sound of love he began this harrowing journey of the soul. Looking for the home of happiness and simplicity he wandered on through the days of his life, as a lost and ill favored creature.

Avoiding the Agate sword that separates the soul from the body, listing on the moor of his shore, watching the turn of events as they collided before. His ropes and knots, things for climbers a ready for the time he would start his climb. In the spirit of logic he turned to the mind where he could find hopefully the vehicle from here to there. But it wasn't logic any more he needed, it was simply to create.

It was something hidden or unseen, an absurd irrational thing. Something beyond the comprehension of his being. He a small witted man, not of any brand, wanting only to stand before the Great Hand.

So not able to understand or know he simply didn't think. He let it go, and thus began to sink. Maybe a lost secret or a moment of haste he would need to find his place? But where could he look for that single trace? That single Chalice of Grace? Sunshine to night, it cycled on through the years and he found that he collected fears an tears. 

A friend sometimes by chance would be, but never would they stay. He would go on to realize, that it was he who would go away.

The world would say he lived today and now it is time for hands to shake. But his lack of thought would bring him back to a claim he could not stake. Mindless man, wretched land, where is the sign to see? Where is the light he needs at night to be able his future to read?

He signed his name by the life he lived and traveled on past through time. People said he wasn't dead but he wasn't alive. Maybe he never came to this oddity of ironic illusion ? Maybe he was just all the time imagining his experience through the lives of others?

We really will never know the what or how of his life. But we never really know anything anyway. That being the illusion, to know is to not know and to not know is to know. The paradox we know.