save the frikin earth???

I look outside the window at the eastern sky stretching wide, over the coast. A search for comfort and well-being lands me in devastating premises.
Clarity never seemed so cruel, standing afar. A thousand industries burn me from the inside and eat away with the entrails of a staggering body; staggering towards a greater and more evasive unknown. The mind runs outside, that it may seek some comfort there, but the external is a more threatening reflection of what’s locked inside. Cringing in the torment of a new-born, slipping from the womb into an infernal pyre, making out from the chaos nought but its own being. Explosive implosions.
Incomplete to call it what man has made of man. It is a greater tragedy, but made with such grandeur and magnificence.
Magnificent is this, for it IS. Every pinch of every spice adds to the delicacy of the situation.
But what when it, this existence, begins to consume itself? Does it fight to prolong itself, once it sees its great reflection? Should it? must we?
Shall the glaciers melt already, having felt the heat of rising man, and bury us with ocean? Or shall it hang atop the mountains awaiting a strange, twisting plot?
Will a man being suffocated, in confrontation with death, sit down in acceptance of his fate?
Happiness has its hands cuffed to sorrow, and bliss has its hands cuffed pain and suffering. Cuffed, for it is more ideal to realise happiness always, without ever having met with sorrow, and bliss without pain and suffering. surely then, this enchanting existence must be cuffed to its own end, however abrupt it may appear. Must we accept the signs of the end with no further ado? Or must we fight for existence? How to proceed knowing it to be the intended end?



In love with this dream,
In love with this stream.
Aware of the awakening dawn;
Of the enclosing sea.
Shall I slay the sun and dream forever away?
Shall I flow back to the mountains, forever to play?
Even while knowing that the sun is unreachable, and the mountains lost forever.



A creator puts himself into his creation. Once it is made, he feels attached to it. Harm to the creation, is harm to the creator, however much it maybe said that the creation once created, is an entity apart from the creator. To let the art go, to the artist, is to let himself go. The artist here seems to be an exceptional one to have made Life a self-swallowing piece of art.