Structure and Mayhem

I think, I write, I think

[structure-and-mayhem]

A Faithful Ruin

I gave my heart to a beautiful uncertainty and called it home.

Mornings gathered around us.

Coffee bloomed like a small sacrament, and two cups lifted their little ghosts above the table.

Music in the corners, debates with no teeth, laughter moving from chair to chair.

When the day loosened its grip, we found each other again in the amber hush of that little world.

Yellow lamps softened every corner, and whatever remained of the day became ours.

Talk thinned into touch, laughter into breath,

and desire, that most honest guest, entered without apology.

The day surrendered to skin, silence, sleep.

We were happy in the ordinary way that makes the ordinary feel eternal.

No vow could have persuaded me as completely as the ordinary did:

the kettle, the table, the look that always gave me away.

So I stopped counting exits. I stopped sleeping with one hand on the door.

Then came the polite ruin, wearing its innocence beautifully.

The house shuddered without being struck.

Not a storm. Not a fire.

A hidden room.

A private chamber I had not known existed, where a shadow had been allowed to stand.

And when I found it, I lost the shape of myself.

I came undone.

I took grief for a lantern, anger for a key,

and fear, God help me, for the truth.

I was not noble in that room.

I tried to destroy it.

But a hidden room is still part of the house,

and the house broke with it.

No heart is graceful falling from heaven.

And yet,

beneath the dust of all I damaged trying not to be damaged,

love remained.

Undressed of pride. Ashamed of its hands.

But alive.

The heart, it seems, is most faithful when it stops begging to be believed.

So I keep the wound like a golden flaw in a porcelain saint.

Not healed. Not innocent.

Not faithless.

[structure-and-mayhem]

Not Faithless

You looked at the moment I broke and called it my shape.

That was pain. That was fear. That was the floor giving way beneath everything I thought was true. In my panic, I ran. Not because I wanted us to end, but because I did not know how to stand inside the collapse.

I know that hurt you, too. I have carried it. I have learned from it. But it did not erase what shattered me first.

I was overwhelmed by betrayal, not empty of love. I was lost in the wreckage, not incapable of devotion.

And when the fire settled, I came back toward you with the only thing I had left:

faith

I believed you when belief itself hurt. I chose repair when anger would have been easier. I tried to understand your fear while still bleeding from it.

I loved you deeply, even then. Not when it was easy, not when I felt safe, but when loving you meant standing inside what had broken me and still choosing to turn back toward you.

And if you cannot see that now, maybe someday you will. But even if you never do, I know the truth:

I was wounded. I was afraid. I was imperfect. But I was not faithless.

[structure-and-mayhem]

The day was what most would call perfect. It was a rare, smog-free day in the city. The sun was out and blazing, and the city was bustling. However, the boy could see a storm was brewing about 30 kilometers east. It was heading toward him at a fast pace, from what he could tell. He could see children playing in the street outside, oblivious to the impending ruin of their adventures in the concrete jungle. From his perch on the 26th floor, he watched in anticipation as the storm seemed to pick up speed. The children were probably laughing and screaming as they were running around, waving their hands and arms frantically as they chased each other. He couldn't hear them, but he could see the fun. His fun would begin soon.

He imagined they wouldn't notice the sky getting darker as they continued to prance around. It would probably be a flash of lightning, or better yet, the crackling of thunder that woke them from their jubilee. They'd scream different screams then. If only he could hear them from up there. He didn't have a group of friends to play with like them. He was shunned by his class. It would be fun to see their good time get ruined, he thought.

He could see the storm much more clearly now. Something wasn't right though. There was a mesh of tiny dark particles beneath the clouds; as if the rain was black, except it was sparkling as it passed over buildings. He'd never seen dark sparkling rain. The storm was moving much faster than he thought. He looked down and the children were completely still, facing the direction of the storm. Something wasn't right and they knew it. He watched the children begin to scramble away to shelter. They split up and ran in different directions.

One boy ran towards an apartment building adjacent to his. A girl ran to a nearby shopping complex in the direction of the storm. A group of two boys and two girls ran towards his building. They were his neighbors but he hadn't realized until then. He imagined they were screaming as they ran. He snickered. Once they were out of sight, he looked back up to the storm and...

The window exploded and he was blown backwards. The glass sprinkled him with cuts and punctures. The winds knocked him back onto the living room floor and he was immediately pelted by what felt like sharp rocks. They tore through his clothes and broke skin. He quickly crawled towards the kitchen. He then realized his mother was screaming. He had to get to her bedroom.

He scrambled around the kitchen island and into the hallway to his parents' bedroom. The shrill screams of his mother were deafening. He reached the doorway and to his horror, saw his mother holding his father ducked next to the bed. A large piece of glass was sticking out of his father's face. Their clothes were torn and their bodies were riddled with cuts and streaming with blood. His mother saw him at the doorway and stopped screaming. She started to gather herself at the sight of her boy and the look of shock on his face.

He couldn't believe what he was seeing. How could a storm be so violent? Why was his father dead? What the hell was going on? He couldn't stop looking at his father's lifeless body; the glass impaled his left eye and his right eye was up and inward, as if trying to see what happened to the left eye. His mouth was open and bared his teeth. His face was frozen in pain and terror.

Then he noticed his mother's face. She was calmer, but didn't move because of the unrelenting storm. He could see that she was trying to figure out what to do or say. The bed was too far from the doorway and the rain of sharp rocks wasn't slowing. Suddenly, his mother's eyes widened and she began to scream in terror. She dropped her dead husband and pointed at her son. No, she was pointing behind him. He turned around to see a black growing mass in the hallway forming into something resembling a human as it moved toward him.

The dark mass grabbed the boy by the neck and sunk its other limb into his abdomen. It tore him to pieces while his mother continued to scream hysterically. It then walked towards her, completely immune to the storm. The black rain didn't hit it... it absorbed the rain and kept growing. It then formed into a perfect copy of the boy.

She stopped screaming. Her son was there. He wasn't dead. She hadn't seen it right. She sobbed and went to embrace her son. Her son wrapped his arms around her. For a moment, she felt a wave of peace and reassurance... then a sharp, excruciating pain in her chest and spine as the boy crushed then ripped her apart in two.

[structure-and-mayhem]

Humility. It is a trait vital to us as human beings, for it is the only temperance of intellect.

The intellect is a most dangerous trait. As with all traits, it is a double edged sword. It can bring great understanding and bear the most succulent and nourishing fruit. It is the highest predictor of success in one's life. It can instill a sense of confidence with the foundation of knowledge it builds.

However, it isn't quite the kind of confidence that pride alone instills. It's not as... foolish... although quite similar in appearance.

Intellect is the ability to extract and utilize patterns of information in everyday life. It is the recognition of objective truths within those patterns, and the application of that knowledge to produce gains in various aspects. It is understanding; comprehension of the world and what it entails.

The danger of intellect is to become enveloped by that comprehension; to believe that your computations of the known are of such incredible significance; that your subjective understanding of the objective truth puts you above others in some way.

You may possess quite the intellect, indeed, but...

Who the fuck cares? Everyone and no one, depending on what you do with it.

This is where humility plays a vital role. Some intellectuals strive for recognition; for acknowledgement of their incredible prowess. They pander to others who they deem to be their peers. They succumb to ideology and repeat mantras; they participate in perpetuating dogma. They very cleverly reiterate patterns of life in ways that please. Ah, the satisfaction of recognition. Addicting, is it not? The attention.

Humility is knowing that despite everything you may be, you are still nothing at all to most. You may find your existence quite important and meaningful, but to billions of others past, present, and future, you are merely another somebody, if anybody at all, in the great scheme of things.

Humility is controlled self degradation. It is perspective. What you know and understand is so infinitesimal compared to what is unknown, and what must yet be known. True intellect is to know this, to feel it in every cell of your existence, and yet still bravely face the great unknown every day, with the full acceptance that it could destroy you, and will do so eventually anyway.

Those who swim in the warm shallow waters of their intellect for too long will be crushed by the impending tsunamis of the deep.

[structure-and-mayhem]

Balance

America is stumbling

While calling for equality, they create sharp divides

While protesting for justice, they commit injustices to the innocent

While unveiling government corruption, they call for more government control

American means racist, sexist, imperialist, bigotry and hate, lower taxes, gun-loving, extreme border control, and fascist 

American also means anti-American, feminist, anti-racist, socialist, all-inclusive, empathy and love, open-borders, higher taxes, and gun-control

The voice of reason is the voice of treason

Money influences universities that teach students that money shouldn’t influence the world

Dressed in Nike and fashionable clothes, Tweeting on iPhones and Galaxies, listening to Cardi B or radio talk show hosts, eating organic non-GMO food, they trumpet that capitalism be thwarted

They blame the system of trade

They blame the successful

They blame their dead ancestors

They blame the corrupt government

They blame 

This has been done before; it’s an old, old game

Balance will be restored, as it always has, as it always will

Paid in blood and terror, until life is set to scale

[structure-and-mayhem]

You ask me if I believe God exists.

In response, I ask if you believe that numbers exist. You say yes, of course. I ask you to show me a number.

You scoff, put up two fingers, raise an eyebrow and say, "Two." I say that all you've shown me is your fingers. You haven't shown me "two".

You scoff again, then write the number on paper and say, "Two." I say you've only shown me a marking on a piece of paper. This marking isn't "two". How can two exist as your fingers one moment, then as a marking on paper the next.

You begin to get agitated and say that, obviously, two is an idea and isn't totally tangible. I ask what you mean by "not totally tangible".

You say that I can hold two apples. In a sense, I am touching two when holding two apples. You continue to explain that numbers exist and are real because we use them in mathematics. We apply them in real world applications ranging from commerce to flight to space exploration. You go even further to say that numbers are probably more real than our own existence. That even without a single human to complete even the most basic arithmetic, one plus one equalling two was always and forever will be true and real.

I agree with you for the most part. You ask me what this has to do with God.

I say that my question about numbers sets a certain foundation for my answer about God, in case you were asking me if I think God is a being that sits atop the world overlooking and judging all of humanity. That idea, while not without its usefulness and a degree of validity, should not be the summary of what God is in a serious conversation.

I say that God exists. The idea of God was a useful way to put the realization of our very complex existence into words and metaphors. While the existence of numbers doesn't validate the existence of God, it draws a parallel that is important to consider. As far as I can tell, God has been an integral part of human development; similar, to a certain extent, to the way numbers have spurred our development more recently.

Somewhere along our evolution, we discovered the future and the ability to abstract many possible outcomes from our actions. We tested those actions over and over again. Many perished and failed miserably. However, there were those that survived and were both lucky and competent enough to thrive. From those successes came lessons and further abstractions. Eventually, we discovered the many mysteries of existence as conscious beings and struggled to understand and explain it all to the coming generations. We did our best.

God is everything. It is all life and death, actions and consequences, hierarchy, time, and morality. All of these combined must be carefully contended with in order to lead a good life. However, even if one does everything right, life may still be punishing, and it may or may not be your fault. These ideas don't seem like much to most modern people, because many are anesthetized by comfort and complacency. To our ancestors, these ideas were massively impactful.

When we discovered the future, we slowly and painfully learned that certain actions reap certain consequences. Those consequences either molded or revealed a morality. I'm hesitant to say that we invented our own morality because it is more apparent that morality is something we discovered through trial and error. The evidence shows that we do not decide what morality is, per se. We discover parts of it, tamper with it, try it out amongst ourselves, tinker and modify some more, and always suffer the consequences of misuse. Much like certain elements in nature, or numbers, it exists and can be applied to our lives, with slightly differing outcomes depending on the variables.

Also much like the elements and numbers, which have arguably existed as long as the universe has, God too has existed in the form of hierarchies; or rather, that which chooses. What decides that certain elements form into planets? The laws of physics do not choose the way we choose things, but the hierarchies that exist within the laws are undeniable. Hierarchies determine what comes first, next, last, and what reaps certain outcomes. This isn't to say that all hierarchies are effective or right. However, from the formation of planets and solar systems to humanity, some things were of more significance than others in some certainty, and thus came into existence. And so, we exist.

It wasn't illogical to label this phenomenon as God, in my opinion. We can definitely do better at explaining it today. Religion must update itself to remain relevant, as God itself was updated over millennia. Dogma is never a good idea.

So if you ask me if I believe God exists, I will say yes, and the evidence is deeply woven into the fabric of our history and existence. We should contemplate what God was to our ancestors, and what God is to us, for years and years.

Numbers do not stop being true when we stop counting. God does not stop existing when we stop believing.

[structure-and-mayhem]

I glance at the woman and think, "How beautiful a creation." I imagine what she looks like naked; what she fucks like. And then I feel ashamed because someone toiled and suffered to raise her and keep her alive and well for all this time. What was I thinking? She isn't an object. She is a whole person with an entire philosophy of existence that drives her every action and decision. But damn, she is a marvelous creature to behold. What conversations might we have after fucking? What kind of food might she enjoy? Inevitably, we would speak about our beliefs, how we came to said beliefs, and our past. I would learn about her family, friends, and lovers. She might be the most interesting person I've ever spoken to or completely mundane. I don't care because first, we should fuck. I'd deal with the rest afterwards. Unless... the fucking didn't go well. She might not even want to speak afterwards. What if I wasn't what she expected? Or what if we simply didn't harmonize? If we didn't mesh the way we should have, we wouldn't be inclined to interact further. Why bother when the most base connection couldn't be established?

Well, because... there's so much more to connecting than inserting my dick in her pussy. We could connect at the platonic level if the fucking wasn't right. It's completely possible since we were both attracted enough to unclothe for each other. Or maybe we never get to fucking. Maybe I make an attempt and she very wittingly turns me down, yet invites me to hang out. We might even become best friends. She would be the best friend of my future wife, or aunt to my children. She might be there for me when I become ill, lose a job, divorce, or experience some other tragedy of life. Of course, I would do the same for her. We may even try to fuck again or for the first time during one of the many tragedies either of us will most definitely experience. Maybe we finally find our rhythm decades later. She might even give a heartfelt eulogy at my funeral.

I take another glance at her beauty and look away. I feel a pang of nostalgia for the now dead abstraction. It was fleeting, yet meaningful and exciting. I appreciate her. It was by total chance that I was witness to her beauty. I feel a bit of guilt for imagining such experiences with her without her knowledge or consent. But damn it all, I still wonder how she would fuck.

[structure-and-mayhem]

The beauty of this world is only matched by the sheer horror. What can anyone do but become a little numb to both. Each person has subjective views that are based in objective reality. What may be true for you is only 98% true for another because every opinion is based on a mountain of facts. That remaining 2% is the interpretation that changes everything for both.

Facts don't have all the power. Nothing has all the power. Not logic, not love, not hate. Everything in existence is a contradiction to something.

And this is the hard yet malleable truth of existence. It is not one or the other. It is both, more of one, or neither at any and all times.

And then there is pain. At the bottom of it all, rests pain.

What the fuck am I trying to say? Probably what has already been said time and time again by so many. Life is a balancing act. Equilibrium is the key, and we are becoming increasingly imbalanced.

Why? Because people are ignoring the fact that pain rests at the bottom of it all. At a certain point, pain will come knocking down our door. All of us share this single truth. Instead of acknowledging that pain is a permanent, tragic, and undeniable part of our existence, people treat pain as an injustice; something that must be eradicated or prevented at all costs. What makes this so wrong is that it is only partially right. 

We must make ourselves resilient against the flows and ebbs of existence. We must acknowledge that life is suffering, accept our fates, and build ourselves into capable and competent beings that can withstand the changing tides of life. The absolute best that we can do with this treacherous fate is to carve out an existence that is meaningful, beautiful, and pragmatic. Yes, we should prevent as much pain as possible, but no, pain is not an enemy that must be destroyed. Pain is a fundamental part of each and every one of us.

Acknowledge the pain in others and yourselves. Your neighbor is your brother and sister. We all share in the suffering in some manner, rich or poor, sick or healthy, no one is immune. So lay down your arms and think for a moment, or a year, or a decade, about what life really is and what you can do individually to make it better for yourself first, then for those directly linked to you, and finally for those outside of your circle of influence.

[structure-and-mayhem]

The most oppressed minority in our society is the individual. The individual cannot have opinions that differ from an ideology, nor can they agree with multiple ideologies. The so-called minority groups want to tyrannize the individual into submission to their group ideology. You either stand with them or against them. This is a dangerous game, and our youth have been ensnared by it. Much like gangs work in inner cities, our youth have flocked to gangs of ideology and are being indoctrinated. It is a tragic and bloody cycle of human history.

I am not my nationality, skin color, sexual preference, politcal stance, nor gender.

I am my values, choices, actions, accomplishments, failures, and connections with those who I love and cherish.

[structure-and-mayhem]

Conclusions are tyrannies on potential. There is no true end to anything.

[structure-and-mayhem]

"You're disgusting! How can a hollow, mindless creature fill me to the brim with such retching disgust? Get away from me!" she said.

The infant would not retreat. It pursued her with whimpers and a look of longing until her arms and clenched fists were damp on the inside from sweat.

"For fuck's sake! Get this piece of shit away from me!" she pleaded to no one as she tried to push the infant away, her arms flailing like sedated snakes.

The room was nearly bare. It was just her, the child, a chair, and a mirror. She only barely noticed that there was no door because the child began to assault her as soon as she was conscious. Every alarm in her body blared at the intrusion of the infant. Panic was setting in.  

She hadn't considered that she could use the chair to smash the infant's frail, soft body. The chair was wooden, small, and sturdy. Even a disabled amputee with one limb could use it to bludgeon multiple infants at once.

She also hadn't considered that the mirror could be taken off the wall and used similarly. It was only as big as her head. If not as a blunt weapon, she could have broken the glass and used a piece to pierce the infant. There were a number of ways to solve her problem.

None of these solutions entered her mind, however. She was in a state of panic, after all. She had awoken alone and naked and sitting in an uncomfortable wooden chair with a terrifying creature that wouldn't leave her be. She could only think of escape. 

Somehow, she then realized there was no door. There was no way out. The panic blazed to a greater fervor.

She wanted to address the most obvious problem of her situation, but the fucking baby wouldn't stop and she fucking hated babies.

She could feel the malevolence swirling in her gut and spreading its sharp, bony tentacles around her brain. It grew and grew, tightening its grip around her organs, constricting her diaphragm, suffocating her soul, and bringing a horrifyingly calm order to the chaos as her vision began to turn crimson.

Her fists suddenly unclenched. She let out a roar that made the child rear backwards in fear. She chased it to the corner of the room, grabbed it by the throat, and began to squeeze. Its eyes began to water and protrude from their sockets. Its tongue dangled from its mouth. Its body began to go limp as she let out another blood curdling yawp.

Everything stopped.

Time stopped. Existence stopped. Darkness consumed the light that illuminated the pitch black emptiness which fulfills all that will never be. Before, after, and then, finally, again, it started.

She slowly came to. Like a needle placed delicately on a vinyl record, consciousness streamed. Reality sat in its most comfortable seat and began to listen.

"Where am I?" she asked herself. At least, she thought she had asked herself. The voice that asked was not in the least familiar to her. In fact, it wasn't her voice at all.

"Who are you?" it asked.

"Who are you talking to?" she asked, startled at the recognition of her own voice.

"I'm talking to you," it replied in her voice.

Whose voice was this? 

"Who I am..." she thought to herself, "I don't know."

"All I know is that I am here and I don't know why," she said quietly.

"That is all you have ever and will ever know.”

[structure-and-mayhem]

The ultimate hate is that which uses love as its catalyst.

A complete betrayal. A planned decimation of incredible intricacy. A careful creation of present, future, and past followed by utter destruction advertised as a revolutionary fire meant to reinvigorate the soil of civilization. Unseen is the malevolence of the fire starters, for it is always cloaked and shielded by love, empathy, and justice.

A hatred so dark that it embraces love in totality without so much as a flinch. An insatiable darkness that consumes the light; a black hole.

Beezlebub, Leviathan, Asmodeus, Berith, Astaroth, Verrine, Gressil, and Soneillon; princes of Seraphim, Cherubim, and Thrones.

They touch and grope every single person. They fondle the souls of humanity. The majority succumb to their shenanigans and debauchery. This is the tragedy of human existence.

It is this black hole that we fight to escape. We live in defiance of this hatred. We scrape and claw to loosen its grip on our throats, to clear the fog it sets in our minds, and to unshackle its chains on our souls. We fight and struggle to free love from its enslavement by hate, and in doing so, we discover the meaning of our existence.