In fall, with cooler weather moving in, several critters will be dying to invade your home to stay nice and warm. Thinking about it just makes you want to curl up in bed, feet safely off of the floor until you can come out of hibernation in the spring. With beady eyes and worm-like tails, they infest the walls and comfy corners of your home without a second thought of consideration towards you and your family. How will you keep these pesky rodents from bedding down and chewing up the walls of your home?
Here for wonder, despite everything, and because of it. Such a thing, such a thing one would never do, right? But we do, regularly, often many times a day. Moments struggling under foot, pinned by our largely unconscious drive to control the living, beating, freshness of our everyday lives.
We are stained by past disappointments, generations of suffering yet this is our preferred arsenal. We trust it, this past, more than the immediacy of the searing intersection between ourselves and this sea of life we swim in. How much we trust this history of suffering, how afraid of joy we are.
We try to Killing joy ourselves from sorrow and end up reducing joy to tiny measured teaspoons, or better still, theory that we can own. The mind can expound on joy but it cannot experience it.
Then there is this heart thing and we know that joy does not actually reside in this powerful, muscular organ nor in the energetic region of the chest.
Killing joy swims secretly in our cells, in the spaces between, in the atomic invisible of the universe itself where there is no difference between ourselves and the matter of stars and universes beyond universes. Or is it we who are the swimmers? So we can wake in the morning holding a gun to the head of heedless joy, or nothing quite so violent, perhaps just a grey pall of forgetfulness, and a dogged determination to get through the day, this day, here on this planet, without it getting us first.
Let us drive the hearse through this blighted landscape of meted out loss rather than ourselves be swept away. Joy is like an eruption of laughter, it is like orgasm, it is a moment where the edges of us dissolve and we cease to exist as constructs of our minds, so we cease to exist at all.
And we are the joy and hence the most perplexing paradoxes of eastern philosophies, we must cease to exist, we must lose ourselves, in order to find ourselves. But I speak of joy, of lightness and we are heavy, and contained.
What a bittersweet thing, such an improbable mingling of the extremes of the full spectrum of experience, an exotic, complex range of flavors. Audacious in the extreme. But back down to earth, this rooted, granular thing, this gravity laden plod of existence and sifting through it for signs of joy.
There it is, in someone else, someplace else. There is joy separated from us by time and experience. Here is joy, just a memory.
Here is joy, quite frankly lost.
Ah, and best of all, here is joy a theory and it looks like this. And the windy halls of the frantic internet are wallpapered with pictures of us, me, you imitating joy, always poignant because we cannot feel it, only look like it. So how is it we kill something we love, how is it we are trained assassins of the very thing we seek, we adore?An honor killing or shame killing is the murder of a member of a family, due to the perpetrators' belief that the victim has brought shame or dishonor upon the family, or has violated the principles of a community or a religion, usually for reasons such as refusing to enter an arranged marriage, being in a relationship that is disapproved by their family, having sex outside marriage, becoming.
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