Rebels, life, and things

I'm trying to write one last post. I've been trying for a long time. I hope this is it...

Image by mollyroselee from Pixabay

Over and above it all there is one thing the machine cannot do and that is to feel. No matter what, it can never feel.
Only life can feel in its living. And this is what sets us apart from the machine, the living.

Life is given to us as a gift and will last for an indeterminate amount of time; and then when it is over it is over and there will be no more. And then whatever we are will be gone forever.

This of course supposes something, and I’m comfortable with that, although it took me a long time to come to terms with it, it’s the way things are, and I’m not unhappy with that. I really don’t want to live forever in this form. I like the bittersweet of every moment passing forever never to return. Life, in its burning away that reveals itself so experiencially.

But life is always moving on.

There are those that rage against life’s passing, and I’ve been one of those.

There are those that have died before their time, and I’ve been one of those too.

Some have gone to that cave in the hills to understand. And some have burnt every moment where they are and can never stand still for long enough to know. And some cry for their doom to come and crush them for they would not stand the not knowing for a moment longer.

And then there are those that have lost their keys in a deep dark well and wander around everywhere trying to find them again.

…

Because the machine exists is it living?

I think we must examine what living really is before that question can be answered for what it’s worth.

But that’s the thing isn’t it: to be examined.

Love doesn’t examine.

It’s in the moment, and comes from the heart and the being with the trust of the universe

…

Rebels beware: the machine is all about knowing you, and your preferences.

Down with the machine I growled in the herd soup.

The machine labelled me a growler and a spastic to boot, and filed me away in a cupboard filled with rebels just like me, and then said: my dear sir, I am your doctor and know what’s best for you, and pushed me in as far as I would go until I poked out the other side.

I tell you, heaven’s not all it’s made out to be until it’s found for sure.

There is one more thing that sets us apart from the machine, but I’ve forgotten what it is so you’ll just have to believe me when I say, I have no idea what it is, but I will say, it sure sounds good.

Can this be programmed into indeterminate pieces sliced up from the whole I can hear you say?

Who cares? Get on with it, said the indeterminate pieces sliced up from the whole and getting special care for their rebellion to say: this piece of bone fits here and that piece of bone fits there.

A dead chicken, sculking in the graveyard, became self aware, suddenly, and said: and now you’re shaving your head I see, becoming a monk. I hope it wasn’t anything I’ve said to cause you to go that way.

Dead chicken questions aside, time flies onwards and the eternal question never gets answered… So what do we know enough about anything to say anything?

Only so much can be said at each telling; and this telling has had its moment fortuitously fluid and flowing as it moved along in its telling to say this: as we live we are until we aren’t.

…

The bone is a machine, and I am a poet, where most of life is living between the two and trying to keep out of sight and warbling a tune.

But when you stop dancing you die…..

Image from Pixabay