The Burning of Notre Dame

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My heart bleeds in the flames of Notre Dame. 

We look to the spire, the hand reaching for the heavens, as a symbol of ancient protection. These architecturally beautiful monuments of historical whispers are reminders that there is something divine in this world. They’re a symbol of the bridge between man and the spiritual protector. The burning, crumbling stone evokes emotions akin to a grieving child at the funeral of a fallen parent.  

The bells are ringing in your ears. The bells that sounded so often through the city streets. A vibration that would paint the city in light, if only for a fleeting moment each day. Bells that would say, ‘Remember the true nature of your existence. I’m your protector, your saviour.’

Perhaps the tears are a realisation that the divine protection, that the connection to the spiritual realm, has been been destroyed. Perhaps the men fighting the blaze, frantically trying to save the ruin, are a symbol of our half hearted repentance. Like a man overcompensating when his wife has decided to leave him. He begs and pleads silently as he cleans the house and takes her out for a coffee mid week. But, she’s already destroyed. He can no longer salvage this wreckage. 

I grieve for the loss of such a beautiful cathedral.

Yet, the church isn’t a hand reaching for the heavens as a symbol of ancient protection. It’s a hand reaching down. Despite the fire, the chaos, the despair, this divine connection will be mirrored in the hearts of believers who recognise true, ancient love.

In the end, everything will burn. So what do we do until that day? 

The Valley of Longing

Down your feet take you,

Through mud and deep roots.

Clinging to branches,

As vision dilutes.

 

You slip and you fall,

But you’re ready to see.

The future self’s guidance,

Deep within thee.

 

The journey’s sufficient,

To make you fulfilled.

But right at the bottom,

Is quiet and still.

 

Nothing but clay.

Clay and decay.

The truth of your life

Brings pain and dismay.

 

No inner child,

No voice of the soul.

Yourself cannot guide you,

You’re down in a hole.

 

A selfish puddle,

Of tears in rain.

With the realisation,

You’re lost again.

 

The valley of longing,

Traps all the lost.

A prison organic,

Where children are tossed.

 

To thine own self be true,

Is a beautiful lie.

You’ll slip down inside,

And true truth will die.
*

Written by Randall Evans.

Silent Suffering & Colossal Careers

The clock keeps ticking.

The blood keeps dripping.

Open your eyes to the point.

The point of the knife.

Image Via http://freerangestock.com
Image Via http://freerangestock.com

The point?

Coincidental fate?

Happenstance providence?

Millions suffer. Billions starve. Children burn.

The west waits for the savior to return.

Keep waiting. It serves you well.

Natural selection.

Humanity is at stake.

Natural selection.

Humanity is too late.

Be cold. Be vicious. Be the machine.

Humanity isn’t essential for survival.

Abort! Abort! Abort!

Progress.

One. Oneness.

The universe is with you.

It will conspire in your favor.

What was Hitlers ‘Personal Legend’?

New age waters drowning new born fools.

Swim around the rock.

Keep swimming.

Keep your head above the waters.

Drown.

Guess what?

The clock keeps ticking.

This is The Vile Mint.

 

India Part 3 – Feet

“This is a very dangerous area,” says the driver, “can not drive through here after six o’clock.”

RJ looks at his watch.

7:15pm

Staying in India is an odd experience for an outsider. The constant noise of traffic, the animals on the streets and the rubbish are all so different to things back home. Yet, these elements blanket the real experience. It’s only after a few days, when these things become normal, that this blanket is lifted. These distractions are not the real experiences India has to offer.

“So, you like living in Australia?”

RJ puts down his Indian style coffee, which is small and very sweet.

“Yeah, it’s not bad.”

The host nods his head.

“How is the electricity?”

All complaints about RJ’s home vanished in an instant. It’s too far from the city, the train station is a 10 minute drive away, the people are too nice and always wave, the cafe shuts at 5:00, the birds at the lake always swoop people… all gone.

Looking up at the single lightbulb on the roof and its wiring running down the wall and into the another room, RJ answers the host.

“It’s… it’s pretty good… can’t complain…”

The host nods… his eyes wandering in deep thought…

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On the last visit to the slum, RJ exchanges smiles with familiar faces. Faces that he never knew, but now, can never forget.

We see ourselves in the eyes of each other. The People in the slums suffer in silence, while the rest of the world tweets their emotions on a global scale.

He opens the door to the van, but as he does two small slum kids run up to him and touch his feet. Pranāma.

The blanket is lifted.

For one reason or another, RJ felt that he should be the one to touch their feet. Not the other way around. They were the ones who opened his eyes and they were the ones he respected.

India--Indian--Slums--slums--slumdog--wall--calcutta--kids--happy--poor--blog--wordpress--photography--tourist--experience--travel--elderly--old--woman--grandma--

It’s 7:15.

The van travels in the dark down the forbidden road. The small hands that touched RJ’s feet keep a tight grip on his heart.

Small and very sweet.

“This is a very dangerous area,” says the driver…

Dangerous indeed…

– By Randall Evans.