Within years of our birth, we’re measuring
our worth—a societal imposition coercing
our comparison to faux personas called
“other people.” We try to find a non-original 
fit that feels good-ish; until we un-become

                                                                                                                   Peace, the implausible bride left alone at
                                                                                                                   the alter, prostituted by ostrich impersonators
                                                                                                                   heretofore known as “world leaders”, who 
                                                                                                                   cower with heads in sand at the mere thought
                                                                                                                   of taking a stand—for anything beyond the
                                                                                                                   depth of themselves, an untenable oxymoron.
All deities are jealous, we’re condemned to
prostration—the saintly pretentious would 
have us believe. But they’ve never held 
audience with the cosmic wilderness 
of expanding consciousness, where gods
are small.
                                                                                                                    The beggars and the haut monde searching
                                                                                                                    for second-hand scraps of the same happiness, 
                                                                                                                    innominate silhouettes wandering listlessly in an
                                                                                                                    early morning, low tide fog—a communal, slow
                                                                                                                    motion pantomime of tragicomic masquerades.
I detect a disruption in the void, so faint at its
genesis, humanity’s collective gasp for breath,
another suffocation near miss. I struggled as my
own impasse until I learned there is but a single
journey—I’ve lived all ten thousand of them.


© Rob Taylor, 2021

Original artwork ©Rob Taylor, 2021

“Ultimately, we must confront a painful point of clarity. The paradox of our existence is that we struggle in a perpetual conflict that finds us seeking to protect ourselves from each other. But in the process, we do not measurably improve the human (or any other) condition. The absurdity of our existence is that we accept these circumstances as an unalterable aspect of life.”

Taylor, Rob. The Irreducible Primary: A Dialogue on Nature, Spirituality, and the Human Condition (p. 30). Rob Taylor. Kindle Edition.

This video has a couple intentional pauses, so keep watching.