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Welcome to Your Life


Welcome to Rasham Writes, a Literary Journal Inspired by the World and its Mindful Revolutions

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And Now, A Letter From The Author:

Dearest Reader;

I do not despise this Great Nation and its policies to the extent that I would embrace blasphemy and terrorism. It is neither the case that I am so piss poor and poorly equipped that I tend to be exposed to this system’s evolving eccentricities.  For me there were many years of personal struggle and self-induced crisis; I lived for a while sheepishly and at the mercy of the state’s systems of education and correction, propelled off privately imagined cliffs by the severely stifling standards of western conventional control. After a period of prescription-strength torture brought about by the repetition of grandiose misunderstandings I was ungraciously guided to a pivot, and because I believed myself to have never been blessed with the fortunes that were so freely granted to my televised peers, I chose again to relish in the land of toxic delusions; my body was dying and my spirit fleeing. I had to open my eyes.

And to what did I awaken? Not some glorified spiritual realm of colors, where love flows unconditionally from the rivers where the Gods bathe nude and mindfully naked in the presence of the truth of the beauty of the green gardens where the earth has its greatest significance in the power of the smallest spectacle. No. In flaming intensity were the realities of the war, the disease, the famine, the poverty, the lies, the greed, the anger, the frustration, the isolation, the pain; the perpetuation of a modern system of progression determined to harvest the wealth from the uterus of the world. I saw a country as a man and Earth as his whore, bound and bearing the bruises of her master’s unremorseful caress, his raucous laughter piercing her virginity whilst he fed his insatiable desire to raise himself high upon her breasts and drill his forked tongue deep within her satin pools to access her inherent bounties.

Beyond the obvious cuts and scrapes, the broken heart and tragically deteriorated morals of our wavering world, I witnessed a promising thing; I began to see the globe in its current state of transition, guided by the motives of a conscious community cultivating a force of a certain flavor ‘global unification’. The Social Retribution Movement is upon us; this nation will undoubtedly see the day prophesized by our ancient native predecessors. That we will shed the weight of our consumptive burdens and realize the powerful potency of pure love is soon approaching, encroaching upon even the stingiest of snooty scrooges, the greediest of glorified goons.

And in this modern era, in the overtones of this Bloodless Revolution, plays not the idea of right and wrong; beyond this outdated plot for arbitrary argumentation is the nurtured possibility that those certain philosophies and ideologies which have produced a world at such a present state are, simply, no longer useful.

It is true; we will soon discover ourselves collectively resting upon our knees humbly prepped to page the mystical formations of clouds in the skies; whence all advertisements, prescriptions, products, technology and toys have failed to supply us a simple smile, a substantial meal, a drop of liquid hydration, we will pray to the Gods to help us, and they might say only that ‘the answer is love’, and to this our hearts will respond that love is enough.

Our minds, however, will resist; indeed this bloodless war has experienced resistance in its beginnings alongside the rise of the supreme powers. But now noble warriors rise in numbers more than a few, spreading seeds instead of arrows, shedding hope in place of blood; the discovery of love will mark an achievement for man parallel in profundity to the discovery of fire; for the second time in the history of mankind we will have accomplished something worthy of divine applause.

As for myself; my words are what they are; they represent my developing humanness. I write for many reasons, though mainly because not to would irritate the very skin upon my back and cause my disgruntled opinions to manifest in other less wholesome ways. I invite you to read, to explore, to question, to challenge, to dissect the reality within which you live; you may find that it is not all it appears. I urge you to explore your own origins, to love yourself as you would others, and to remember this: all you really ever have to do in this world is breathe.

Rasham

guitar

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Excerpts from
Literary Works


  • "There must be something more..."
    -Plastic
  • "Her eyes were glowing wildly..."
    -Chronicles of Ham
  • "They were side by side in bliss..."
    -Love and Furlough
““There must be something more”, I tell myself. Those spoken words are a reassuring wave of comfort, a hand that pulls me from the grave within which I have been resting. What is that something more? I have nearly exhausted all possible hypotheses through an extensive experiment of trial and error. I believed once that engaging in a revolt against the system to which I belonged was the road to enlightenment. It wasn’t. Many hours spent alone within the confines of a cell, and a white padded cubicle, and an institution designed for the treatment of mental disease are the societal consequences of my rebellious behavior. However degrading, lonely, spiritually devastating these real experiences proved to be, they are perhaps to what I owe my relentless inquiry into the nature of existence. Having been stripped of ‘freedom’, self-will, and all material possessions in those isolated instances of incarceration and institutionalization, I had only myself and my thoughts. For some, this would have led to an endless rampage of anger and thus further civil intervention. For others it would have meant a permanent installation of irrevocable nightmarish fear and subsequent submission to the demands of daily life. For me, it spawned a euphoric understanding of myself in relation to my environment. I survived, and was better for it.

-From ‘Plastic’

Her eyes were glowing wildly like the embers of a campfire on a winter solstice night. She had no memory past or present that could account for her entrapment, no recollection of any moment which immediately preceded her current circumstance. She knew only that which the moonlight had afforded her; the words of the apparition before her were a source of salvation for the weary girl. After a deep breath and a moment of silent prayer, she sacrificed herself to the will of the daunting voice echoing mysteriously throughout the depths of the chamber. She brought her wrist to her mouth, and while tears of desperation poured from her eyes, she hesitated, waiting for a monumental interruption that would save her from what she was about to do. The moment never arrived, and so she closed her brown eyes, and with her teeth, tore at the skin from her delicate wrist, shredding the fibers of her arm, leaving a gaping hole of exposed flesh. She screamed in pain, and when the taste of blood began to irritate the sensitivity of her famished stomach, she released her mangled arm from the grips of her mouth and fell heavily upon the floor.

From ‘Twenty-Something: The Chronicles of Ham’

They were side by side in bliss and smiling with ease, their shadows cast were swimming in the vaporous atmosphere surrounding them. Their eyes glowed with a certain awareness of the unknown; a realm past anything their senses could validate. They knew they belonged together, resting as the world moved in rapid cycles; this was their place, their day, their moment in time, and together they discovered themselves in a new facet of reality, like children by the sea for the very first time. They had only just met, and few words were exchanged between the two, but they had given each other more in peaceful gestures of acceptance and simplicity than anything before. There was no surface, no depth, just two souls dissolving into the essential nature of pure being. His body leaned against hers as a lucid fantasy was being realized by the two believers, and they watched as people danced to the tick tock of time in an intricate warehouse of machinery and artificial incandescence.

-From ‘Love and Furlough’

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