How much gold and salt went to Timbuktu? Ancient times moved trade like an ambiguous voice that was never heard. PBS tells us of ancient civilizations in Africa that remain unrecognized behind the curtain of apartheid and veils of media induced ignorance. Anthropologists, historians, theologians and philosophers have tossed and turned culture. It has become a cultural sleepless night and a lump of bread dough. How easy for us to interpret meaning under pressure of an audience. Easy to spout off endless jargon to the interested listener and feel proud. In reality, the premise may possess an amazing idea of end, but let us confront the real burden, the burden of forgetting.
Fact is, most of history occurred before we were born. It might be redundant to report that history has two sides, but simple to report that any event is caused, and results in an infinite amount of variables and perspectives. It trickles down to modern man not feeling, not understanding the perils of the individual person that survived at that time. An easy example: Can anyone name an individual who contributed to the great pyramids, one of the seven venerable wonders of the world? Can you feel the slavery? An impossible feat to endure. We might have to utilize the technology available to achieve means beyond comprehension of interest. Sometimes, the drive to know overwhelms and we take the time to learn, and how easy we forget. Regardless, we'll never know how they felt.
The written word came and the individual was able to utilize media to express ideas and feelings. This was romantic. Painters were sticking plaster to ceilings of churches in Italy while folks in England and France spilled forth the written word of elegant prose and poetry. The European continent took hold of the future of aesthetic valor. It has never been the artist to take the reins of value, of interpretation, it has always been the proletariat critic who dictates what art is. If the common man had the way, Mother Nature would rest on the steps of the Guggenheim as a welcome mat. These days, with so many people of education, a plethora of middle aged, middle income, middle religion critics thrive as the middle class. We learned to read, and love, and feel why bibliophiles creep in the nooks and crannies of used book stores, and Goodwills. Besides the heady mold of the old firmament, the words expressed feelings with ideas one might relate to and understand. When it was discovered that these feelings and ideas were invoked upon a number of people, feelings of shared ideas, perspectives and conslusion made peas in a pod. It was an exponential awakening and if an ideology was shared or had shared the feelings of a forgotten writer, then a bond was gilded.
The beast to bear isn't so bad when others carry the weight. If you have someone to curl up next to, someone who will forgive you, or bail you out of jail, one may rest easy. The individual, the person who must let the yeast, salt, water, flour, grow among and within, is doomed to suffocation. This individual becomes asphyxiated by the knowledge, the voice that was never heard. The beast isn't a monkey that hangs on a junkie. It is the quiet chirp of the cricket or the drone of Katydids late at night. When the forgotten words ease into our subconscious, we are born. When we bear the weight of the lost whispers, we are saved. When we let them out, we feel whole.
Identity will not matter when existence ceases to amaze. Souls will drift, whispering tales that never find eager ears. These are the tears that leak out in sleep. These are the tears that tickle earlobes. Listen. Put it in a pocket. Carry it around.