Reading CTPhoenix's journal

TO THE READER: This is a very serious work. If you read this, let it be with a pure intent and as much moral discipline as you can take for yourself. This has been on my mind for some time. I hope it is enjoyable, but please do NOT abandon this in your own minds. I would wish for everyone in NAO to read this. It is a piece that has taken months of preparation and thought. Find it in your heart to accept this, and I have found a space to create it.

The Drum of Time

Solid steel
skins of beasts
this is not a drum.

It's in our minds
these inhibitions
it's so dreadful
so inevitable...

Beat, beat, beat
history repeat
looking ahead, weeping behind
human nature, moral nature,
drummer's time... unwind.
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I fear that this poem will be left for naught if it dos not have a critical analysis. Most poetry left here is unchecked, unbalanced, and poorly written. I would like to give an example as to what poetry should be.

Note: this is NOT saying that people write disposable poetry. It is just that most of it is so vague that it is displayed in high favor because people tend to bend the poetry around personal circumstance. I believe that poetry is most beautiful when it expands our minds and brings us to another reality than what we would percieve.

Here I will explain what I meant.

Solid steel - Represents ideology. Religion. The things that people have brought to their own attention. Things that loving philosophers have so desperately tried to convey, and lovers have fought to live. Those things that we imagine in our minds, of all beliefs. In this world, we have billioins of living creatures, all with their own perceptions of what life is, and what it should be.

skins of beasts - This represents us. As people. As the flesh we are. I put this on a seperate line to show that our thoughts and our selves are very different. Imagine a world where all you see is what we do. Without our causes, without our mental battles. We are beasts. We act so violently. We show the same inate actions as the animals we work to supercede. Imagine it without motive. It is all so instinctive.

This is not a drum. - This is a simple line. To tie in the ones before. It would be easy to simply be swept away in "emotion" (confusion) and just leave it be. But it just makes you think of the imagery. Think of everything humanity has meant, in all of our impefections and history. In all of our downfalls and witnesses... And think of a drum. So constant, so beautiful... It can only express constance. What in humanity is constance? ... You can see it. In this first verse, the rest of the story can fully develop on a stage just created.

It's in our minds - Our imaginations. This world that we have created for ourselves. So entirely dependent on them. Our own constance is found in what we deem to be real. This world. Everyone has accepted that this world is real. All of it has become exactly what our nature reflects. What our minds will portray...

these inhibitions - this line comes in two parts. <These> emphasizes that constant immediate attention this has on us. This mental stasis; this self-created paradox that we refuse to give up. and the word <inhibitions> is a curious thing to put in... but it makes sense when you imagine to yourself what we are truly doing here. What we are wasting. It leaves so hanging for an explanation for what is holding us back. What exactly is humanly condemnable about our own species. What we have been wasting...

so dreadful - self explanatory. But it is necessary to show the hatred. It makes you want to scream "Are you blind?!?" You want people to see that we are wasting so much that could be precious and beautiful, all for the said inhibition.

so inevitable - think of the word inevitable. Not evitable. Entirely unavoidable, because the evidence is simply not there. The only backing for the wasteful nature of humanity is our own evidence that we make. It's in our words, our minds... It is in this very poem. It is inevitable. It is here, at the end of this verse, that you find yourself asking about what the drum should be. That the truth is. What this poem was created for.

Beat, beat, beat - Three knocks of a drum. The true drum. That drum that we do not have the permission to recognise. It is in the simplicity of three beats that you can see that everything we have been, are, and will bee are completely nothing but a beat of this drum. Three beats, three tenses. Two directions and one stasis. But all represented as a beat. To show that in all of the significance of all three, we truly are nothing...

history repeat - reinforcement of the previous line. Our own experiences and self-proclaimed abilities are all really one in significance to what really matters. This is NOT meant to mean that our past actions will be the same as our future ones. Rather, the simple nature of these actions are bound because we are so caught in our own minds. So invariably, that the only thing to stop it is to stop the only thing that we have deemed to make us human.

looking ahead, weeping behind - The focus now moves from the drum (still left unexplained as to what it symbolizes) to us as people. This is shown when it explains that we are looking. Well, now it sounds so ridiculous that we are "looking" anywhere. This is best characterized by the second part; weeping behind. This goal that we as a species have always looked for improvent. Expounding on those principles we hold so dear to ourselves. Finding some conclusion, and yet looking back at our progress with such distain... Only to show that we have made no progress at all. Yet we still look ahead... hoping for something that time may never reveal to us. Purpose.

human nature, moral nature, - these two things belong on the same line because they explain the same thing. It shows that we are analogous to those things that we have bound to ourselves as good our bad. Right or wrong. This line is only meant to bring to the stack of attention our characteristics, rather than our direction. Now we move in for the kill... linking ourselves with this ideal drum. This drum of fate. What is it about our present state that is shown so different from prefection?

drummer's time... unwind. This line has brought me tears. I have found that it say so many interpretations... It is here that the drum is shown to be time. The drummer is representing the only this that is constant. The only thing that is shown to be worthy of such a drum. Nothing. They work so perfectly together. Time is a measurement of energy an the changes that are made in the universe. So all changes that are brought about are a pain to the concept of time. They are all users and abusers. They all take away the thing is wants for itself. Survival. It's own personality. It's own self. It must fend for itself as an entity. The only thing that it can accept is not change at all. Nothing in any sense. A place for time to expand itself and love again. To be free. It is in a willing host... this drummer... that time will be complete again. The second part of this line represents this. That time must find itself to become denatured... to free itself of any responsibility and live in nothingness.

This poem is one of the most dire anguish I can imagine. It is a poem about how all of mass and energy and everything that we are - everything that could possibly be - is painful to the only thing that is real. Nothingness. I chose for time to become a drum to show that it is a measurement. A medium. But like our lives are a medium in which our fanciful ideas come to be, time would wish so have nothing. It would wish for a host of nothing, like we wish for a host like time. Time is shown here in the last line of the poem to be somethnig that all of us are. Something that wishes to be it's own. But something it could never do without nothing. Like we could never be anything without time. Just a present stasis that is contrdictory to our own existence.

This poem is meant to show that whatever truth may be... whatever science or religion may prove to be true or false... They are all bound by the rules of existence. God is something, therefore he does not belong to the drummer. Science is something as well. Anything that we can imagine is a terrible entity that it abusing time as a host. The final conclusion of this poem is that to truly be perfect, we must not exist. An idea faintly recognised throughout time. It is also a pity to time. That everything we are, everything that could be... is all painful to something. This drum.

I hope that this can be seen as true poetry. I hope that those who read this will recognise the beauty and time that went into this. Thank you for reading. Thank you for understanding. Thank you... for seeing.

The power of truth is action.

It seems from reading the explaination that you wanted what you had to say not to be missed, not to be wrapped around just one person, but something universal.

You suceeded well.

I'd like to throw this into the wind, if you will...that truth in it's universal existance can be as big as forever or as well fitting as a glove, because truth is truth.

It only looks that way because your standing on your head.