The blind shephard

Our soul is not wrapped by the wind, but by the flesh. Our ratio is not the pendant of our emotion, but it is the fragile boat that is rocked by the waves of our pounding heart. We are submerged in this salty water that gushes into our mouths as we try to protrude and reach for a breath of rational thought. This is our blanket of logic in which we warm ourselves, we comfort ourselves like naked monkeys in the cold, lonely breeze. But this delusion is not our true nature, well, the delusive state is our nature, but we are not animals of contraposted anomalies, we are one nature, imperfect in all aspects, perfect only in being complete and entail all in one entity, which we cannot escape. We cannot save ourselves, we are neither lost. There is no salvation than the oblivious state, our forgetfullness is our heaven.

Those struggling souls I pity. Their struggle is their continuous horror that they cannot face themselves. Their struggle is their attempt to escape their fate. Alas, pityfull souls, embrace thyselves, in my arms you shall find salvation, because I subdue thee in thy fate, thy pity state. I hated this sick state of the human civilization, where man is not just like sheep, but fearful sheep, less than sheep. The sheep that fear their fate, I did detest. But I have learned to hold my heart in my hand and feed of the warm flesh pounding. I have grown to take a lost soul in my embrace, comfort it. Because in this comfort that is false, they find salvation, in my pityful embrace they are fotgetful. This is my love, which they love because they cannot recognize it. This is my love because they are strange to it.

I stand aloof and point my eyes toward them. I observe and guide my glance closely along their sides. This too is false, because my eye are a lesser guide at daylight, than my heart at night. It is this trail, the blind trail that I follow, follow thought by thought. A blind sheppard am I for the herd in an arid land.

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