Exile Of Love

In a manner of speaking, we all work for a dictionary. Because literature is a dictionary, a compendium of meanings

for this or that human lot, for this or that speaks to man. It is a dictionary of the language in which life speaks. Its

function is to save the next man, a new arrival, from falling into an old trap, or to help him realize, should he fall into

the trap anyway, that he has been hit by a tautology. This way he will be less impressed and, in a way, more free. For

to know the meaning of life terms, of what is happening to you is liberating. It would seem to me that the condition we

call exile is up for a fuller explication; that, famous for its pain, it should also be known for its pain dulling infinity, for

its forgetfulness, detachment, indifference, for its terrifying human and inhuman vistas for which we’ve got no

yardstick except ourselves. 

The cliffs have metastasized to engulf the hope of a bridge to far from the land I once knew. I have only climate to

blame until the weather changes. The diminishing dimensions have curved my sickness into a nightmare I was

thrown from. 

Like the walls of Elba to Napoleon I see the shores of my countrymen who once said they loved me, but I have been

cast out by the courts of my mental mind sentence to my pain.  

So, as you can see, no matter what level or space or time in life, we as humans have derived from our own stories.

The contrast we created are elliptical illusion.  When we express and tell our stories the human light shines to another

to cast brightness so the others may not fall. To see the trap, the light must be on from one heart to the next. 

I have been studying, but also living the condition and conditions of the human construct. There is a science to be

understood and that is being manipulated for control. I love you and I love Me we shall meet on the same shore soon.

Written by Dr Paul W Spirit Running Bear Dyer