whatevs

11.20 on New Years eve. was an alright year, met some crazy and amazing people in hospital, spent 2 trips in hospital this year first one for 3 months, second for 10 days. that sucked, on the other hand i got a decent mark in geography hsc, met new people everywhere! lost a friend to cystic fibrosis - love you jacob :( won an award for trying :D that was cool. learnt heaps about life and more about God. was an interesting year, 2012 it is.

Time doth continue

The seasons come and go,

And they show,

What we know,

That the rivers continue to flow,

The world keeps spinning,

The four seasons beginning - again

And Though time has past,

The shadow is cast

In the very same spot - again

We live, cry , laugh and die,

Over and over again

Though time doth continue,

The life that is in you will stop,

Yet the drop,

O' the drops of the ocean,

Will flow again, yes again and again.

Bright Purple Thistles

The blood of men is like paint,
Bold not faint,
And the town is painted red,
Mine own blood marks the cairns
Each spot,
A different lot,
Where i bit, fought and spit,
On the graves who helped me,

Yet the rains came and washed,
And i watched,
The lands become drenched,
And they rid the stench,
With the sky's tears,
Many years, fears, cleaned,
Gone is one way to describe it.
I observe and wait as the slate,
White, shining,
Gone are the writings, with a silver lining,
The clouds move on and the land is lush,
And i rush,
Through the knee high grasses,

The bright purple thistles,
And the whistles,
Of sparrows,
New life,
Peace,
For now,
But the rains are needed often,

Comprepensive

The word comprepensive is a word that i invented and is not an actual word in the english dictionary, as it is the name of this blog i thought it would be fit to describe its definition as its been a long time since I first named it so.

Definition

To be comprepensive on a topic, is to give a full, thorough and deep thought process to that particular topic. For example, you can comprepensively think through an idea. The act of such doing is called comprepension. To be comprpensive is therefore to give full thought, a thorough and deep analysis of a topic.

This then is what comprepensive's definition is.

Christmas spirit.

Its 9.30 on the 6th of december.

Christmas is nearly here and i have to say im feeling saddened that its come back again. throughout the year ive been spammed with advertisements commercialising new years, easter, mothers day, fathers day, halloween and now its christmas, commercialism has multiplied. Its really sad actually that we can think like this in our country. we're so blinded of what happens in the rest of the world. In Zimbabwe the best christmas gift they'll get is if their house doesnt get bulldozed by the government. Yet here we sit on our luxurious couches watching t.v. and writing down a dozen extra things to our christmas lists every 10 minutes when an ad break comes on. I want an ipod, an ipad, car, boat - whatever, it doesnt mater. Our culture is so obsessed with the perfect christmas. Christmas isnt christmas at all if you dont have lights, a christmas tree, tinsel, bells, a wreath saying "noel" on the front door, Mistletoe, christmas carols, everything on your christmas list, and so on and so on. - the only songs people in chad will be singing this month are songs of weeping.

I suck, i reaaaallly suck. I remember many times when i got annoyed if i didnt get what i wanted at christmas, and i look back in shame. I missed the point, i missed the entire point of christmas. Is it not Christ - mas.

Commercialised christmas is basically an exchange of money between rich people. And i suck as im a part of it. Theres plenty of solutions i can think of but due to our greed in Western society, we wont ever fix our greed permanantly. We can all do our bit though.

List of things I'm gonna Try and do this christmas:

1. Spend a limit of $10 on my siblings and parents.

2. Give to a charity.

3. Love people this christmas

4. Not going to get annoyed over my presents.

5. Read more about Third world nations.

I suck.

Apologies

As the river flows down,

As the clock goes round,

In the day the sun shines,

The seeker finds,

The bonfire burns.

From sand comes glass,

From copper brass,

From winter it turns to spring,

All of these things bring,

From one end to another,

The woodlands howl at decisions past,

The claws of wolves dig in,

The deer scuttle around,

Their eyes glaring,

The fire in the distance burns,

The wood never returning,

Regrets begin to seep,

As the tears fall cheek to cheek,

As dry eyes become drenched and weep,

As time does not fall back,

As time does not erase,

The days,

Words spoken,

Even whispered,

Wether small or great

Though seemingly innocent they rise,

Though some things may not be brought back,

Still I whisper,

I apologise.

The Ancient Heart

Sitting under the shade and refuge of a cleft, the rain falls down in torrents as I look out, surveying the gorges that lie in front. The forceful yet soothing sound of the cascades and the wind that blows, knows and reignites the glows that set fire to the heart of my being. The sound of the city is no more, for the cars that are screeching, are distant and no longer beseeching my desires; desires which have long been extinct from an ancient heart. For the present is of what once was and is not was is to come. Circles are all that exist. While we presume on an ever changing line, ‘tis but a circle that all our ideas are run by. ‘tis by a circle that in twenty what was known two hundred years ago will surface to become fresh and renewed. And so what does it matter where we lie on the circle as its turning gives turns to what is considered to be a moderated average of the present.

And so I sit outside of the apparent line on which we lie, I sit on the outside of this city, an outside that is only temporarily the outside. Its not that I sit under the cleft of this ragged crag for the reason of being an outlier but because the views and surrounds in which I sit are so much more filled with depth and character then the alien nature of a pathetic attempt to order the beauty of what cannot be controlled. A symphony only inspires the free spirit, and it is free spirits that do wander and ponder both in the physical and literal. Being free to wander these lands, my ancient heart is but an imitation of what was and is and is to come; that is the constant circle that is in motion.

Under the crag, the lorikeets huddle to keep their feathers from weighing them down in flight. The cascades begins overflowing and drenching the rocks and soil that can be seen no more. Wallabies bound, like the lightening to come, across the rocks still above the surface of what has become a river. For each bound they take, an hour of rain seems to flash past them. From the Crag I see them leap into the distance, like a shotgun darting and parting from the view of my eyes; into the shrubs I assume they have gone to seek shelter. The air is richly drenched with awe as the thunder begins to rumble, a rumbling slowly grumbling, an omen of what’s to come; the ancient heart is beating. The circles keep circling as the city sleeps beyond the horizon.

Why try to recreate something that has already been created? Why part with what is real and true, and foolishly imitate, thinking what’s old is new? Its always there as old as this crag, there’s nothing new under this light. So why bother saying whats become new is that much more needed, why say what is old is inefficient. For the circle keeps turning and it will turn very soon to the arc that im on. And I wont be seeking refuge in an an outlier. I wont be observing what is primitive and immature from my eyes but just a point on the circle – not a tangent.

While sitting from my point on the circle, no one can see that it is part of the same line that they are on. For when looking from one point of the circle you cannot see what is on the other side. From my cleft, I too cannot see them but I know they are there, for I too once lived in the city. Then how could I know? How did I know to see beyond the wilderness that I am in. how could I see through the wilderness of what lies between the two sides of the circle? ;’tis a question that many ask but few have seen. For it’s right there in front of us. I survey the wilderness I am in and the many clefts along the gorge. I see many other faces in thought like mine; the contemplation of this circle is in their eyes.

We all are imitations of that Ancient Heart, for we are not blind but merely looked through what keeps this circle turning and turning, urging are hearts to but glance at the centre. The centre is where all meets; the centre is what holds this wheel together. It is the centre, to say plainly, that keeps the circle turning so that by looking through the centre we can see through the other side. And I have looked.

I have made my decision. I’m not going back. The city is but a satellite that orbits our earth. For I have made the decision to stand on solid ground, to seek shelter at the heart of this land. The irony I hear laughing as the outliers sneer at our standing on solid ground. They laugh at our desire to come closer to the centre of this circle, closer and closer I have come.

The centre holds this solid ground together, it is this land that is ever flowing. Turning and turning, the centre provides the life and motion, and from the imitations lying in orbit stand mockers; they are mocking another side they cannot see.

But is it really that hard, that hard to see through the centre.

Why not just look with those instruments called eyes.

From a broken world,

From a cheap imitation,

Is it really that hard to part?

The circle keeps turning,

From its centre yearning ,

Ever known as the Ancient Heart