To judge our reality, to plan our future, we need to heal our past

To know anything ... we must know its effects; to see men we must see their works that we may learn what reason has dictated, or passion has incited, and find what are the most powerful motives of action. To judge rightly of the present, we must oppose it to the past; for all judgment is comparative, and of the future nothing can be known. The truth is, that no mind is much employed upon the present: recollection and anticipation fill up almost all our moments. Our passions are joy and grief, love and hatred, hope and fear. Of joy and grief the past is the object, and the future hope and fear; even love and hatred respect the past, for the cause must have been before the effect.

The present state of things is the consequence of the former, and it is natural to enquire what were the sources of the good that we enjoy, or the evil that we suffer. If we act only for ourselves, to neglect the study of history is not prudent: if we are in trusted with the care of others, it is not just. Ignorance, when it is voluntary, is criminal; and he may be properly charged with evil who refused to learn how he might prevent it.

We believe that lies and truth are righteous to help us live our life's the way people expect us too. We smile when inside we are  crumbling , we pretend all is well, yet the world is turning against us. Emotion draws us towards something we often don't understand, life, death, hurt, an awareness of the discrepancy between the world 'as it is' and the world 'as it should be'

The processes of peoples thinking mechanism  is wired definably different in each and everyone of us, what makes one person cry or laugh has the opposite effect on another.

How do we address our own beliefs and what we may term as our own short comings?
Do we block them, or hide away like the tortoise in his shell, only coming out when we feel safe with the world as we see it?

Are we betrayed, after all we don't all fit into the mould that society deems we should fit into, I am a faulty model, I never see the world as others see it, I see the edge, the outside, not what is right in front of my eyes. I distance myself from my problems, dealing with others, helps me cope, I bury my head in the sand when it comes to my own problems. Yet my emotional problems I let them cut deep into my physic, they hurt, they damage me, they stop centimetres short of killing me, but still I never learn.

I write to distance myself from problems, because no one really understands. They pretend, their platitudes of good intentions, their echoes of forgotten laughter and disillusioned dreams

Written upon paper like echoes from the distance were forged in the fire of thought they come violently, subliminal words too naked to speak, sentences and phrases incarcerated by  lips, seeking release to be written upon the wind.

Without a voice within whispers with no ears to hear deaf and blinding words too obscure to omit, too concise, to include a thunderhead of meanings ready to rain down verbs and descriptive overtures cascading into puddles seeking refuge from,  things never spoken in words.