Oh, this thing again. Another day and night aided and unaided by some substance far elusive and yet attainable only briefly to me. The night cried in horror, reacting to the silent statues looming in the corner of a forgotten red brick mansion. The stairs were winding ever slowly to a precipice of ice and soot, a longstanding and forelorn testament to an era and peoples outdated.
One day we will all be faces in the sand, bricks in one ancient building crumbling to the ground, demolished for the sake of progress. We will all leave our legacies to the hands of the status quo- our determinations now mean nothing when placed in the hands of fate. Fate is not always (and not often) kind to us in our inadequacies and urges for sublimation. We are limited by the fruitless utterances of an unheard crowd sometime in the future and not perceivable to us now. The normal rules need not apply in the wake of such extreme, relentless mediocrity.
The drone of civilization will wax and wane and our bodies will wither to dust as the world passes over us. The clouds will not weep for such microscopic, insipid creatures- only we, in our minds' eye, will behold or feel any glimmer of remorse. Once those days are forgotten and we too are nothing but worm food, the buildings, people and ideals of the world will change. We will not be part of this. We will not be part of anything then, to come, or still in progress- only now.
A building standing 2 on top of 2 multiplied by 4 and reduced by 6, a building with no beams or stable structure, just gelatinous matter unable to shatter. Unable to withstand the test of time, only one brick left to fall in the wake of so many who have already exuded their eloquence in a most persuasive manner. That persuasion, our mannerisms- all fallible and fleeting. We do not listen, and the world does not stop. All that is certain is the mundane reality of the here and now, the itch and scamper of feelings we consider insufficient to fill our emotional gasps.
Wishing that words meant something in the scheme of numbers, the game of life, the rule of the mighty and oppression of the strongest. Strangers affiliate with nothing more that glimpses of their own selves, and my self wonders relentlessly whether or not "strangers" actually exist- whether we are all one, or whether we are all separate. The tribal communities of ancient North/Latin America would ascribe to the belief that we are all one people (or perhaps followers of the Bahai/humanist/unitarian universalist faith)- that we are all on the same path and comprised of the same matter- thus bonded forever in our eternal struggle for that supreme life.
Distractions come and distractions go, but there is really no conceivable way of envisioning a world of equals, family, blood-bound seekers of the same ultimate existence. It is pointless to define "life" because life is not perceived, imagined, dreamed of or experienced the same way for any two beings. Every dream is ultimately for what? Success? Success in life, love, happiness, money, health? Every dream is merely for life to continue unhindered, for nothing to come along and shake our roots with the sudden taste of exoticism. For no romance to wake us from the dreary banality we come to trust and love.
The cold bites down and with it a succession of urges- constant need for companionship, acceptance, stability and trust. The cold is warm when warm is cold and as I've said before opposites meet opposites in the same way. They always strive to convey some semblance of difference when it is in fact that desire to portray difference (when there is none) that connects them all.
Dreams of fatal wounds and college party scenes, elusive to me in the quest for a quiet home. Prowling neighborhoods and backyards, going door to door looking for that "match." That ideal YES in terms of domestic appreciation and stability. Why is stability always linked so closely with domesticity? Can we not be wild and chaotic, free and erring, and at the same time stable in this cacophonous core? Is there only one means to an end, and yet so many means and only one end? It seems the only thing left to consider is whether or not "the end" is really the same for us all, or whether it depends upon the means with which we achieve that end...(and the beginning and middle, for that matter)
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