wondering, mumbling and a world crumbling

'it's their fault', screams the suited man as his dreams come to naught. he had money in his hands but it was never real, only shadows of interest, to which he payed too much interest, and sold his life for it all to be taken away and now he's left with nothing, or even less, or more. what's more than nothing? a wise man used to say, 'the half of it's not much', but not everyone can understand that realm of logic. nothing is what you get when you pay everything on top of debts in which you owe more than the seller sold. a devious trick to distort the mind and wage war on the Benefactor, the most High who decides all price.. so at what cost comes nothing? it's priceless, and unbuyable. there is no nothingness anymore, it's been had. except when everything is dead and the Almighty king says, 'Whose is the kingdom today? - Allah, the One, the Irresistable'. and a day of reckoning when all those who had been suited in their best prada and dol...

man makes things more difficult for himself, because he's got nothing better to do. he wont take the help of anyone else, he's afraid to walk in another's shoes. arguing he can't find a solution, not even looking for one anyway, instead wandering in blind confusion expecting to find an answer some day. ego hurt by this inability self-esteem shattered almost to the core. revealed man's innocent fragility. he doesn't want to exist any more. oh man, dont take these problems to heart. force the self into making a new start..

seems like you're in a little paddling boat trying to get to the middle of the ocean - thinking you'll find something there. but if you arrive all you'll find, is that you're a million miles from any shore with nowhere to land and no solid ground. so it's better to stay on your island of knowledge, slowly building it up against the stormy seas - til you have a continent, then you can begin to build bridges to reach the others, instead of looking for cracks in ideas without knowing the plan..

gone are the times, one would suppose, when the pen can run free. as constraint pulls in from everywhere and the thoughts that could be seen, never heard, to be unpalateable are so hard to put into words. this makes reading so much more difficult, and the writer's imprisoned in a self-imposed h-block. as in those ozzy soaps, the walls are mere paper, and atoms, weak to the mind that perceives beyond all that, seem to tower above in structures too great to overcome. however, all minds are susceptible to that kind of restraint. our world is designed to confuse us in this way, so as to test us in our ability to realise. the path to realisation is long, and frought with so many obstacles that all travellers need a guide. we see so many who dont even know they're on a path to begin with - those who perceive their existence as a mere frolic through the garden of desires and pleasure, without direction or limit to what it is permissible or no, and it's so tempting just to join tha...