Modernology

The sound of the undying dawned by heavy breath

For an longing increment

We paused in step

Sand between our toes

-Scott Graham Modernology

What is left to be conquered than the degraded kingdoms of a thousand passed generations? What is left to be desired but the dreams not yet dreamed? What world is left to be solely ours when the one that shall be inherited down is fractured, divided and dilapidated by the whims of untrained minds, untempered wills, and the thrusting of swords irrespective of victim?

As a species, we always speak to our advancements and achievements in the fields of technology. But perhaps, that those steps have been the catalyst for the unforeseen consequences of mental and moral disintegration. The most complex forms of expression and communication are derived from the simplest tools and technology. True greatness in our time is measured in followers and not in life’s work. Masterpieces no longer come from years of tedious labor but from the contexts of one hundred-forty characters or less. Expression, beauty, and art have become commodities, and exoneration has been bestowed to those who can package the simplest message, in the simplest method, for the simplest person.

And within those parameters, is there any room for wisdom, any hope for enlightenment, any reprieve from the grips of maddening chatter of disqualified discourses? If not, then there is no drive to build anew, to realize our dreams, and to repair this reality that has so-far looked unkindly to our reluctance to accept that conscious high-intelligences are exceedingly rare and a natural blessing. We squander our divine gift each day we stray from the path of intelectual discourse and feverous inquisitiveness and pseudo-realities of a digital society.

From all that is left, how do we rediscover and reconnect with our humanity? How do we find ourselves within the darkness? How do we manage?

How do we move-on?

-Mondernology

By the sweetness of chance

or by the glory of being

partitioned the soul onto the mind

and life onto meaning

Given by the proof

of the immaculate realms

being sight, sound and time

together is world

from darkness to light

1. Is it by design that humans seek destruction of oneself or one another? Or do these malicious, sometimes violent episodes result from something not-imposed by sickness, but as a cry for help in the most rash of pretext? There are two fundamental areas in which I would counter voices pointing directly to human mental health. First, is one based on society. Our culture is one absorbed with addiction and dependencies  Our medicated states of nature bestowed upon us due to medical and pharmaceutical practitioners promising ‘cures’ for ailments. But what we confuse these ‘cures’ with are truly just masks for the symptoms of a deeper infliction. The majority of the time, these underlying issues are not caused by birth but my serious malfunctions of a depraved society— One that collectively sees life expelled with little hope of grand achievement or intellectual profoundness. Locked into a constant reality of pressures, restraints, classes, work orders, and mine numbing tasks only briefly broken my senseless, ignorant media and entertainment, we are left with little time to pursue the things that truly make us human— thought, art, expression, and relationships. It fundamentally makes us feel disconnected from humanity, the world, this life, even existence entirely. And it is that feeling of being caged and alone that is insurmountable and leads to over medication or sometime violent or malicious tendencies.
2. The second area involves the concept of soul and how one’s life is guided and manipulated existentially or astrally. Both of the concepts deserve their own discourses  which I will continue to author as I truly wish to do everything justice at the best of my abilities and seasonings. 

-Scott Graham Modernology

Read More

Seal me to white plains, the unforsaking horizons  

Hold me to this secret, cloaked in separating light

Creep into my thoughts, steal from the lips of lions

Color me warmth

On the darkest colds of night

Believe in anything

For hope wants to be found

A sudden shaking by headstrong winds

From the quiet, in somber, in toil she tends

With clenched eyes contemn the light

In our heaves and gasps, ill-fated fight

A fleeting sign of careful balance

Pulled aside by figment hands

Count, repeat the seconds back

There is no returning

No.

      turning.

                 back.