“The Wicked”

Creativeness strives for the victory of eternity over time.  The initial creative act is consumed by time, but it is directed upon the eternal—eternal values, truth, beauty, and righteousness—of divine heights.  All creative goodness is unfortunately temporary and corruptible, but the fire is forever burning with the fuel of the eternal.  This temporary state of corruptibility is when the gift bestowed upon man is easily consumed by the tragedy of wicked creativeness.  It is a tragedy when the creative act bleeds upon eternity but becomes inspired by the refinement of ego.  The morality of man and the morality of creative energy are in an everlasting war.  If the good is to be understood as a real force, it cannot be conceived as the purpose of life.  If there were to be an absolute realization of the good, we would inadvertently stray away from any moral merit whatsoever.  The nature of goodness presumes man’s eternal struggle with his own double-edged sword sharpened by his duality.

And the yarn unravels…

I have long known that I might be well out of my mind, and it would be a lie if I said that I did mind it, if I didn’t who would?  Those who would—know that I cracked a long time ago.  My excitable behavior was after all, the character that carried my southern charm.  There was a time in which I even had doubts whether or not I was all there.  But now, even though I act with oddity at my side, I was confident, cheery, and pushed a little to the edge of clairvoyant.

I knew when to expect the other half of me. I knew that when my blood boiled with adrenaline, I was already done in.  It was evenings like these that always did me in, my longing for the darkness of night bled me of all that was once so bright.  The fiend that assembled the other half of me would awaken soon, stricken with pangs of hunger.  His appetite had not been fed in some time, so I was none surprised when I felt the thirsted rumble of his rousing.  He came fast and I fell swift—he was looking for his gift—the gift others call madness.

It happened all at once.  The sun was beating down upon the most recent relic of a hangover with relentless sweat. The fire inside me raged for a bit of oxygen so that he could feed his need for sin.  I became aware of the livid spirit as he consumed me whole, feeding off of the goodness within me.  He had come to the façade of me again and there was nothing I could do except to satisfy his thirst a time or two.  It was the only way I could get him back to sleep.  He always made an appearance when life became over-stimulated by the burden buried deep in its struggle for all of its well-thought-out wellness.  Again I had found myself lost in his wilderness, without a compass to point us north.  My mind with its different boulevards could paint my soul black and blue with ease on days like these.

My nerves, when they gallop with such strained and extended stride as they often do on these days—was when the sharper, more abrasive side of my personality moved to the front of my being—breaking loose all sorts of hell.  The sort of hell where his pride could only thrive when satisfied, and my flesh allowed what leftover skin and bones said pride left behind.

It was a day shaded with suggestions of self-imposed suffering—based upon the amount of pleasure his appetite felt the need to measure.  The impostor was fully present now and his presence known, it was time for the impostor to walk in peace, out of the door he was about to be shown.

Those who look all over for happiness—ought to be better prepared for the sting of disappointment.  I say to myself.

You spend all day looking for things that pay you no concern.  I tell myself, speaking through him.

We would be better off losing ourselves from the shadows of this house, finding the sunny side of life within the outskirts of sin, said the two souls through a single thought.  He was lying through his own teeth but I would be just as wise to let him pass on by, because I knew his kind like the back of my own hand.  He was at times at a stonehearted liar, and not by his own accord.

There was only one place to go where happiness never hides its joy from either side of me and that was home.  The shores of her always left me pure.  Through all of life’s trials, with their tribulations, she was the one bit of constancy that filled me with jubilation.  I always considered her baptismal ability to purify the most stringent of souls to be her greatest secret.  For she was the fountain of youth to even the most uncouth and I was lucky enough to know her on a personal level.


Her therapeutic waters arranged delicate in the midst of pristine panoramic scenery had been calling for some time now and it was high time I heed her wishes.  One always thinks with clearer thoughts upon her crystal blue persuasion.  You might know her as Lake Tahoe—I call her home.

When a man goes about doing all the things a wild man does, all the while with earnest behavior, it’s nothing more than frightful earnest, which in the long haul is nothing earnest at all.  To grasp your wild is more about the will to balance yourself more than anything else. To carry with you every single step the zest for life, is quite the quest towards the purity of being, but the zest becomes difficult to wrest from its core if the fruit is spoiled.

“What the hell are you talking about now?” The voice says.

 It’s nothing that concerns you.

I see him start to scribble words upon a dampened napkin.  His words read.

If you really want to let them think, then make them.

But what is greed? Nothing more than lands of milk and honey, both that spoil the men who thrive, which count on oil, when all they need is fertile soil.  Man, he who steals from hell to promise heaven?

Boy, you best count your blessings before you even…

That sort of conduct is to the world’s credit—therefore it is not in the sense of well to find fault with it.   

As much as I hated it—to think against the grain of my own belief—the sonofabitch did have a reverence of something sincere about him.  And most times he did make a lot of sense; I just couldn’t stand the fact that lately I had no mechanism that could cope with him.  He was confronting me with more strength each time he came around.  I had no choice but to admire him and he, I, because after all was said and done, we were one in the same.  As of late he had grown heavy on the lighter side of me, and it was today that he would either find his way or I would encounter the current of silent consciousness.

We had hit the halfway mark of our destination.  We were headed to Deadman’s Point, a place where “good, god-fearing” men once performed heinous acts in the honor of original sin.  You see these shores we call an image of heaven, in her depths rests hell, it’s time for a bit of history that I am to tell.

I see him scribbling like a scribe again.

You know as well as do, the point is not yet ready to be told.  To make a point, you have to plant the seed, and the ones who see the worth in believing will allow that seed to grow in them, and when they are ready to pick the fruit from the tree of knowledge, they shall be ready to harvest the truth with its abundance of redemption.  It’s more or less the promise of heaven. 

Points are built in the fashion of increments, to make a point, you have to first construct a point, then and only then will the message correspond with its ability to make others think on different heights that grow higher with purpose in each morsel of mathematical commentary. 

 Well, shall we discuss the golden rule?

You’d be wise to stop spilling this ink when you overthink

To believe is to perceive and what is all of this perception of hatred that bleeds man of spiritual progression via tricks of deception.

 You are starting to sound like me.

Well then it’s high time they meet Ramble, I said staggered under the stress of unhealthy excitement.

They already know you, why must you always be so damned excitable?  You and your judicial altitude with its plentiful facilities of thought and the sublimity of your reason, it’s going to get you in trouble one day. 

 I do what I blame to please.

Trust me when I say that I believe you.  After all that’s why I am here.  What I am to you but the bitter accompaniment of guilt, the sweetened vile taste of forbidden fruit that puts the spiritual goodness in you on guard.

I believe you to be the remnants of my spiritual blindness.  You are the elastic heart of my adolescence that never contains any constrained shape.  We are two souls but with solitary thoughts absorbed by the rapture of enjoyment.

You are a great comfort to me, a place where I deal with elements more or less stable, more or less manageable, more or less mad.  It’s true, I am the wilderness in you though you may seem meek and mild—I am your wild. You think that pleasure is all I seek, when it’s pleasure that makes you weak.

By the stoned stare of suffering upon my own face through vanity’s mirror, I see that I had escaped time altogether, and went my way, with death at my elbow and his death my resolve.  I supported no objection to sentimentality.  I was thankful to find a trace of anything like his feelings within my burnt out heart.  I let my old memories and attachment to him become an air of use that often carried me away.

He was such a grisly spectacle of awareness that I could feel his edginess as I parked the car.  It was time to draw the curtain of charity that he had too long held the stage—for nothing more than his own benefit—and he knew it.

What are we doing here again?

We are going to jump off a cliff.  My voice trembled with the agony of fear.

So of all the promises you’ve kept, the promise of death is the only one left?

There is a mere chance at death but this fall is more in the sense of our life’s tragic symbolism.  Everyone comes to this lake in search of something.  This lake is symbolic to the purity of life.  Their great need, their hunger is for the goodness of sense, clarity, truth—even a crumb of it.  To cleanse oneself in the pureness of water has been of significance since the creation of time. Folks are dying—this is no metaphor—for lack of something real to carry home when their day is done.   Men have become so feeble minded to reality, due in large part to their ignorance of spirituality.  That’s why we are here to give hope to those distraught with despair.

The path we are walking now was once a path to paradise for many men, but not the paradise in which you perceive.  You can feel the spirit of lost souls up and down this intact path that leads to hell as much as it does heaven.

If you weren’t so damned dependent upon your desires, maybe you would benefit from these fires in which your heart fanned the flames.

I always admired how well he knew my aim.  But he was no longer a part of my reality, he was better off to go back to where he belonged, buried with the roots of my tree.  He was better off digging for hell, while the better part of me reached for heaven.

The trail we walked was opening as aisles of green grew the forest with layers of life-supporting air and before both knew it came the dizzying heights of a granite cliff.  Looking around at all the splendid scenery, the theatrical gorgeousness of our tragedy appealed to the nature of us, but now all I could taste was bittersweet as I hoped that this would be our last conversation.

Well if we must flirt with death please allow me a few words.

 Give them all you got.

Here I stand next to you as I always have, struggled with might and main.  But I am not the one who causes you pain.  You see I am knowledge and you, wisdom.  Knowledge is what leads to suffering, wisdom to tranquility, and I hope you find what you are looking for, for I already know what’s in store.  But is only up to you to find it—to never quit.  

But here I live in the darkness of your heart, inside my knowledge turning the wheel of cogs that rule with supremacy your fear.  You, longing for one little look towards the tunnel of love and light, where all turns to dust and the thread of life dances balanced.

I was your capacity for love, when in its youth, embraced all and everything, both the sensuous and the spiritual, only to endow you and your easiness to fall in love with fairytale ease—with the revolution of your later years, the kind of transformation that only happens to a chosen few, and to poets, though to them it is rare.  I am the wolf in you and you the sheep, but you have a promise to keep, so go ahead take that leap. 

I am sad that you don’t need me any longer, but hey what are friends for?  Why wait anymore?

I was falling before I could even take one last breath. The sonofabitch had pushed me over the edge and I fell with such motionless grace that death held my eyes upon heaven’s glare.  I could hear him laughing with joy at the occasion of defeating his most dangerous liaison before I felt the impact—like a wall of concrete had made my final bed.

As I sank with sanctity through the depths of her chilly water—her effervescent iciness sprinted through my veins attacking the ends of every nerve I had ever felt while washing away the solitary need for sin.  As life emerged from its brush with death, my heart pounded with pace, adrenaline coursing through my entire being, it was the type of adrenaline that dripped from the gland of eternal life, in which blood could not be boiled.

Are you there I ask myself?  There was no answer.  It looks like I shut him up sharp, I say out loud, still with questionable sanity. With my head on a swivel, I look all around this panoramic scene of heaven—everything had a new dimension, a deeper meaning.   Life was so much more vivid with meaning than a moment ago.  I marvel at the transparency sinking below me, and at the lucidity that awaited me.

As I reach the shore, climbing upon a rock with steady balance, a verse from the Bible speaks from inside my heart.

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck what is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing

Ecclesiastes 3: 1-8

Then came another.

A false balance is an abomination to the Lord, but a just weight is his delight.

Proverbs 11: 1


As I walk the path back to the car, I think of all the lost souls that walked this exact path, whom lost their life but found paradise all the same by the greed of man.  My heart begins to pound more than ever with passion, but it beats with the rhythm of a redemptive and baptismal balance.  After all baptism is the outward manifestation of a new identification.

There’s an old saying that goes, “There’s more to the picture than meets the eye,” which in short means, there is a lot more going on behind the scenes than what you perceive at first glance. Much like the misunderstanding of Paul, there is a hidden, invisible, and spiritual reality that is tough to explain, but it is there and it has been hidden for a long time, and it has encompassed my being for quite some time now.  Much like an iceberg, there is so much more below the surface of me that has yet to be seen, but in time the heart has its ways and means, and this one means to tell.

I stop to breathe in all of life’s little glories, shed of the very cancer of permanent pain.  There was no inconvenient sound that intruded upon nature’s meditation.  Then came the chirp of a cricket, one that no human ingenuity could ever discover its source.  In the earnestness that brooded in these woods—the sense of loneliness no longer told itself upon my spirit—because I knew that I was no longer alone.

Wake me when its time.

Welcome to Ramble.

In closing, it’s quite the tragedy of goodness that when we recognize it, we sidestep its whole purpose—goodness is nothing but the struggle on our way to the Promised Land.  To be good is not the end of life and being.  The good must be conceived in terms of energy and not of purpose.  We realize the good not because we have set ourselves up for the purpose of doing so but because we are moral creatures.  The source carries the weight while the goal waits with eternity.  We fight the good fight not because the conscious needs purpose, but because our energy is wired by both the wicked and the good.  And when balanced by the precision of equal parts, we see the path in which the starting point and the goal coincides—it is the emanation of our creative fire.

Until the next time.


My roots are buried in the Dirty South. I grew up learning the importance of God and Southern Charm. I began writing in my late teens mostly through heartbreak and music. I moved out west 15 years ago and live right around the corner from the Fountain Of Youth. Most people refer to it as Lake Tahoe. I play Chef during the day and search for ways to save the world by night, through reading, writing, and believing. I enjoy the side of life that is less abrasive. I look forward to joining you on my quest through Spiritual Sobriety with the Promised Land as our ultimate destination.

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