the micro blog of soulcruzer

In the trenches, the sky is a staccato rhythm, a bitter tang that coats the tongue of earth. Voices, distant, the weight of the earth above us, boots shuffle past, the dance of the living that I’m apart from. Metal through flesh, the world tips sideways, and there's warmth spreading, the memory of rain. Earth cradles me, a symphony with the percussion of shelling.

The pain is there, a lifeline thrown into the turbulent sea of my consciousness . The fabric of my uniform sticks, a mix of mud and something unnervingly softer, the stink of war. The ground beneath my fingers, a cruel joke of peace not mine to have. The world in jagged pieces, I see a sliver of grey, the cruel cold whispers promises of rest.

The heart, that drum of life, beats a stubborn rhythm in the face of the abyss. I smell gunpowder, my mind kick-starts and wanders, refusing to sleep, the call of the void, perhaps. Shards of memories pierce the present, a green field far from here, the laughter, the softness of hands. It’s hard to tell, and it doesn’t matter. It’s human, and that’s enough.

And so I cling to the touch, the voice, as the world dips and sways, as the fragments of me threaten to scatter. A man made of flesh and blood and memories fights to hold on, even as the edges blur and the cold seeps in. The human spirit woven from threads of survival, hope, fear, love.

What is it about the human spirit, the narrative we carry, the story of who we are, who we love, what we hope for, that clings so desperately to life? It's more than just biology. There's the primal urge, the evolutionary drive that insists 'survive', the fierce whisper of life urging us to hold on against the pull of the abyss.

*this is a hyperlink adventure, the links add an additional level of textuality to the piece.

the hyperlink can be a profound instrument in this blend, a modern-day manifestation of Eliot's footnotes in "The Waste Land," offering readers not just a path but a multitude of paths. Each link is a potential adventure, a door to another room of the vast mansion of literature and ideas.

hyperlinks act as secret passages that lead to caverns of context, history, and interrelated concepts.

truth clings to a moment's breath
each second, a whisper of reality 
reflecting in the waters of existence
rippling outward from where mind and matter meet.

In the courtroom, we swear to tell "the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth," as if it were a commodity we could package and hand over. Yet the stories unfold, witnesses recount, and lawyers paint pictures in starkly different shades. The jury deliberates not to uncover a hidden, singular truth, but to decide which version resonates most convincingly with their collective perception.

Our lives are lived in the context of this fluid truth. We shape our identities based on a narrative that evolves with every new experience, every remembered past, every anticipated future. The 'self' that you declare true today is not the 'self' you might claim tomorrow. Just as a river carves canyons over millennia, the continuous flow of existence shapes and reshapes our understanding of our own truth.

we circle around the ancient fires of discourse
throwing our perspectives into the flames, 
watching as the sparks rise to join the stars. 

The only fixed truth about truth is its unfixed nature. What we hold to be true may tomorrow be refashioned, melted down, and recast in the light of a new day.

The quest for truth might be less about securing it to the ground and more about learning to ride its waves. It's in the act of surfing these swells of perception and understanding, with eyes wide open to the shifting winds and tides, that we might find the closest thing to a fixed point in a world where everything is in motion.

We stand by the shore, peering into the depths of the water, searching for the rock--the absolute truth--that anchors the fluid dance of waves. If our truths are written in water, constantly flowing and reforming, how do we stand firm in our convictions while allowing the currents of new understanding to shape and refine them?

there's a pulse, a beat
a rhythm that’s jagged and raw
dancing to the cadence of the streetlights.

it’s here in the hollows of the night 
where words tumble out like dice 
in a back alley craps game

where the poets huddle 
over steaming cups of coffee, their 
cigarettes making halos in the dim light. 

it’s in the bloodstream of their verses, 
in the thrumming of the city's veins, and 
the way the night opens up like a beatnik’s Bible, 
spilling out secrets in a language that’s half-sin, half-salvation. 

the poets, they get it.
they speak in tongues that kiss the divine, 
that wrestle with the infinite, caress the ineffable, 
tease out the silver threads of connection 
between the sidewalk and the stars.

they chant, these beat poets, 
like monks who've traded their 
silent vows for the syncopated prayers 
of the jazz club—

thumping bass
the hi-hat's crisp whispers 
the sax wailing, always wailing. 

the mystic chase is there
in the alleys of consciousness 
where the self dissolves like sugar in coffee, 
bitter and sweet, we're all just seeking 
the face of God in a smoky room, 
in the reflection of a dingy bar spoon.

the road is the path and the path is a Möbius strip
twisting on itself, and the truth isn’t at the destination,
it’s smeared in the journey, smeared like ink on the poet’s tired hands. 

they wrote like they were trying 
to scratch the heavens open with the tip of a pen
let the divine light flood through the page, 
turn the word into flesh, into something holy and trembling.

the page is the altar and the sacrifice
where they lay down their visions, their acid revelations, 
peeling back the layers of material until they’re 
face to face with the cosmic joke, the eternal 'ha, ha!’

and they don’t shy away, they dive headfirst 
into the abyss, the void, where time collapses
like a cheap suit and space is just another word 
for the distance between human hearts.

in the curling smoke, the flicker of neon, 
the beat poets find the sacred, in the profane alleys, 
the all-night diners, making mantras out of the mundane, 
finding Nirvana in a worn-out shoe, 

the Third Eye in a half-drunk bottle of 
cheap red wine, spilling over sheets of tattered notebooks. 

and we, the readers, the wanderers, the seekers, 
we listen for the beat, the rhythm beneath their words, 
a heart that’s pounding out the message—

break free, break through, break open. 
let the inside out, let the mystic in, let the poetry 
do its ancient, eternal work.

in the beat, there’s truth, and in that truth, 
there's the spark—the divine spark that burns,
always burns, in the core of us all.