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
