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