The Journey back

 

Some Blakeian goodness courtesy of Poetry of Flesh the other day.

 

Blakeian goodness, strange sounding that it is.

 

All the wisdom and insight of the ages. So grand and far-reaching like all the grains of sands of the world, we cannot know it all or realize it all.

 

Eventually we must come to rely on the interwoven fabric of eternal human knowledge to remind us, to illustrate, what has been said by those who lived before us.

 

That we might have never known had it not been for…

 

 

Poetry, she quoted Blakeian goodness.

 

William Blake, he wrote:
“The road to excess leads to the palace of wisdom…for we never know what is enough until we know what is more than enough.”

 

At once reassuring. And liberating. How?

 

For to have weathered the tumultuous waves of excess leaves you gasping for air throughout the remainder of your tired life.
Absolute serenity is surrendered, forever, once you venture out too far into the road’s pitch blackness. It’s as if the minute you pass that point, the point of inexhaustible excess, you sign a contract with Fate. You may come back, body and mind intact, but you can never carry that elementally peaceful sense of existence back with you. The moment you sign the contract, you’ve released it like a murderer releases life the instant he pulls the trigger or plunges the knife.

 

Once you return from your voyage into excess, you may not plunge maniacally into the act of unabashed self-pontification of the virtuosities and alleged wisdom you rounded up liked pillaged spoils during your misadventures.
Your words must be measured and qualified. Saintly purity can never be yours again.

 

Excess comes in all forms.
And flavors.
And styles.
Excess afflicts the soul as well as the body.

 

How many can live in excess without leaving bed?

 

Dragged back to reality. Excess is escape. Excess is the eschewing of reality. Of Earth.

 

You decide to return. Enough of the road, you’ve had enough. You leave your excessive havoc behind.
You retrieve only yourself. And the tatters of your wisdom.

 

You ventured into the netherworld. And lived (in a manner of speaking) to tell about it.
But surviving is not remarkable. Surviving only means you did not relinquish completely. And wholeheartedly. You’re a fucking fake. Coward.

 

Couldn’t go out further, could you? Ha! You’re alive. You shouldn’t be. The dead deserve our respect alone.

 

And the road to excess may resemble a stain. Upon your soul and sincerity. Which serves no purpose since you aren’t dead.
The road and its memories and traces and third-party recollections may only serve to trample the gravity of your wisdom. Which would enrapture if spoken from beyond the grave.

 

But it relieves.
For turnabout and transformation of the soul is possible.
The road to excess thus proven and mapped, is not a one-way street.

 

The journey back awaits those…

 

Is always waiting.
And if you don’t wait too long, you too may return.
With your wisdom.
And if anyone will listen.
And believe.

 

They, too, can know of the perdition to be found at the far reaches of the road as images issue from your shaking voice and trembling heart.