"Craving pure perfection is a common goal amongst life in all forms. Whether it be through the influence of religion or internal motivation. The path to perfection is transparent. There is no true sense of perfection. Within each soul there is a divine purpose and that purpose is what creates what we call the world. Now the basic understanding of perfection is misjudged, cliches ring through the world stating all perfection is in oneself. While this statements is overrung, nonetheless the foundation is the simple truth"-
S.P.G

A Game of Chess

A Game of Chess

As this psychological war is underway, it is the atmosphere that too, contributes to this momentous chess match. It is not the chess match that is often portrayed as the two old men sitting in a beautiful park on a quiet summer day. But instead, a titanic collision between peace and disorder. On my side of the park, the sky is dark, shielded by a colossal black curtain. Milky speckles of stars and planets dance in majestic patterns for as far as I can see. A warm orange glow from a near street light illuminates nearly half of the stone table at which I occupy.

Enscripted flowers, animals, and angels inhabit the stool beneath me, as well as the outer edges of the table. The table rests in an enchanted garden. It is wide and open, sloping gently down to a cosmic-blue river. By day, the garden is washed by the sun, giving it a golden glow. Birdsong filters through the warm air, lilting in age-old melodies. A sea of colorful flowers drips with pristine beauty while buzzing bees surf open spaces in pursuit of pollen that the bustling winds scatter into the air. The fragrance that the flowers disperse tug at the corners of my lips, creating a smile. The grass so gracefully sings along with the birds, like a church choir. By night, a newly mint-moon drenches shady glades with silverlight, and I weep in awe at the creative artistry.

Demonstrative of perhaps the transcendent. Across is my enemy, and the atmosphere he resides in. A narrow, low and close passageway. It is dim, murky, and absolutely still. Tormentous howls of suffering echo near and far. The ground saturated with water, sheer mud. Loathsome vermin cover the landscape, aromatic of decay and rotting flesh. A potent stench that for whatever reason draws me towards it. A nefarious presence presses down on my shoulders, letting me know of its existence, patiently waiting and letting me tire. His purpose perhaps is an attempt to draw me over to the other side

-Anonymous 

Tomorrow

Dumbfounded Wisdom of a Russian Pioneer

Dumbfounded Wisdom of a Russian Pioneer

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