Language is Magic

So often, I get stuck on the observation of words and the power they hold. Ever say something and then you notice the weight or shape of a sentenced formed as it hits the ground hard, oops that was your toe? For me, when I stop to take in an environment, or thing, when I allow my mind to get clear, these things speak to me. Sometimes, an unveiling of a story at length comes.

I'm sure I'm not the only one who has this experience, but I have thought about it, and now I'd like to tell you about the experience of living through existential things. So here goes.

There's a small rural town in Vermont called Lincoln, (really just a bunch of trees, the occasional moose, deer, owl, etc.) where there is a spring called the Lucky Seven Spring. Many times in the past, I have undertaken a long drive just to get a drink of water.

The Lucky Seven Spring with MiDaS

Well, I say water, but what I mean is the some of the best water I've ever had. Magic water even. I had an inspiration to write this, and for me, that's pretty magical.

One day, as I stood in front of the lucky seven spring and it told me a story. It was a story of a lonely, exhausted stranger who was on the brink of death from starvation. It was a cold winter in Ripton, above-average snowfall, and the sun hadn’t even the slightest presence for months, except for the few rays that came to form a thick layer of ice on everything.

Walking through the wooded area was a hazard in itself due to the protruding ice hanging from the trees. The birds did not sing, they were dead..... It was a frozen wasteland... A place where runner sleds were afraid to tread because they were afraid to be cut by the hard ice..... IT WAS COLD! Sorry, I had to do that, I was trancing with imagery.

On the day he thought he was to die, he sat before the holy spring and closed his eyes. He shut off his senses, and the swirling vortex took him in.

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That universal entity begins as a thought, then passes through the gate of the astral, flows past the stars, and into nothing more than an intangible myth. Nothing more than symbols.

That black hole where all truth is, the place where the blueprints for all matter exists and transcends into existential legend.

The cosmic mind as a vision was granted him as his dying wish and is as follows.

A breath edging ever closer to your lips, rolling over and under, slowly taking form in your mind. Gracing the eloquent shape of your tongue, passing over your teeth, and finally coming to a moment that breaks the silence like waves crashing over rocks.

Words exploding with atomic power. Words slay. Pictures and symbols create the very world we live in. Wars begin with a simple sentiment, and with silence, peace begins.

Expressions of fools and kings, the arrogant and the kindly, all of which are lumped into the same category even though they belong to different classes.

The man with a gun is not the one who pulled the trigger. The cat is a cat unless it's a dog, and shit suddenly takes the power of a verb as it hits the fan.

I describe spoken language as nothing less than magic, only one thing retains more power, the symbol. It tells a story. It speaks without ever asking for permission. The symbols are intrusive, in spite of this fact, I ask them in.

It never gives two $%^&s who might view them. Not an ounce of consideration and without any discrimination slays both child and mother with its message of obsidian.

Just one view and you penetrated my mind. You raped my perspective, you ravage my heart forever turning me into your message.

I am the reflection. I am the mirror. Contained and controlled with effortless, motionless stone. Think about it.

It is a sentient being all of its own design, it is the ultimate form of suggestion, it is a reflection cast, it is your shadow, and it requires nothing more to accomplish this task.

Preprogrammed by timeless heroes and villains, but also, programmed by none. Its the crack in the wall, obscure and vulgar, obscure then mundane,

obscure and it relates to your pleasure and shame.

Its value infinite yet null. Its power, to call your attention, to cast itself into your mind, abstract but soon enough it takes form. It's the black that turns blue, its shape and form comes through you.

Commune, communicate, your soul is its fuel, now recreate.

It was only water...Or was it? Go to the lucky Seven Spring, go to the place where the magic happens. Where nature has Structured the water. Go to that place. Later, as a result of this obscure abstract vision, his memory lay in the black, centered over the spring. His ghost, now just a warm intangible thing.

He became the symbol. The cryptogram, and the ideogram. Without a beginning, surely no end.

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Many generations later, his descendant visited the spring. He filled his bottle and was refreshed, never to know the truth.

Best spring water ever!