The Chronicles of a Lost Southerner

Word is in from the heavens; “Mankind’s star charts are still accurate.” The universe is still out there. And the birds are still flying south this year. As the sane strive to avoid the brink, there are those clothed in warrior wardrobes shrouding all but the windows to their souls, polluting the www dot with their hornet’s blood. Murdering a plenty in the name of whatever. But it’s my hope on this day that the darkness some export from the abyss will become near past soon. Let us enjoy our own nostalgia by fostering the healing power of reminiscing past blessings. And what better day to do this than the fourth Thursday in November. The almanac of time traces this day back to 53 proud refugees celebrating their gardening skills with a few locals. They found no need to discuss future land development plans. No parades of lies. No disclosing of future floods of casino retributions. Not even a historical footnote mentioning it is time for another installment of The Chronicles of a Lost Southerner.

These words incubate in my fingers all year, now I just need to shake them out. No longer a concept of packaged thought inspired by understanding’s torchbearers – this year’s annual rag of prose is a declaration of war on America’s knowledge famine. Uniformed opinion loosely based on maneuvered facts thickens the devil’s fog of idiot. He marinates in the sludge of mental waste. A space ever expanding with conspiracy theorist; they seek to save the lazy mind from revealed truth one keystroke at a time. I would never claim martyrdom to secure The Bill of Rights, but I am well pleased that the “X” button in the upper right corner is protected under it’s ratification. However, as long as others are safe from smite I sustain those who chose to advocate for their ideal society. We all should work to keep them alive and free to speak. Ensure they survive, just not thrive.   

 

The reshaping of America by the will of many is the greatest gamble the Founding Fathers set in motion with their aggregated system. Today some, if not many, believe the country they were born into will not be the same country they belong to at their end. America in name only. An America consistently numb with well-maintained momentum financing surface level happiness for the purpose of keeping the rabble from scorching our shared paradise. We will be damned by the humanistic perspective. Supplying the brush strokes to the son of the dawn’s Gravity Hill painting… a portrait of an illusion. The illusion of an upward journey toward equality. One day the gravity of subjugation by those in the perceived know will bind foolish worshipers of mind. Fend off the madman’s bullets, rage against intellectual paternalism.

Even though I rue the day a generation lives out the words of the ancients, the DNA of the plan comforts. God is an astronaut with a great eye for organic architecture. Evolution is a wonderful tool. When looked through the lens of the eternities both science and faith are estranged siblings orphaned by the steward race. May we all remember reality is individualistic, and this space ship is all we have for the moment.

 

Be pro-choice. Always chose life.

Jarvis