Ironic, isn’t it?
“A tragic irony of life is that we so often achieve success or financial independence after the chief reason for which we sought it has passed away”
The initial insanity has passed, like the gatekeeper. The disc of dillusion is almost nothing now. It appears, habitually, on occasion, but is dismissed without effort. The blaze is upon me. My mind is on fire. An ancient pain that no one knows about, no one has seen. It is, ultimately, personal to who I am. So personal, that others would not be able to separate it, and me.So personal, that others would never see it without seeing me. So personal to me, that only I can target it. Only I can segregate it from myself. Only I can see it and observe it and push it away.
The fear, I’m speaking of. The result of the pain. But the pain itself, this old pain. I’m engrossed in it now. I can’t interact with anyone or anything. I can’t watch television, a movie, read a book and I can scarcely listen to music. Although I must, because silence hurts.
I am taking deep breaths, and I will re-enter it. I will turn off the music, turn off the light, and stare at nothing. And it will come.
I am so very lucky, so very grateful, for this opportunity.
We see and dream and droop our heads in immense sadness once in a while, isn’t that right? Fearing the unknown, being surpassed by our peers, envy and the loss of time tugging at our smiles.
Ridiculous, yes I know that such timeless and emotionless things would threaten our very being. That we would remain unhappy and down in a time and place such as this where anything is possible.
Where optimism isn’t just a dream and reaching the limits of the universe are at our fingertips. Where i can choose my career and learn about it and pursue it without being left over in a ditch.
Or without starving or hurting anyone else I can master a trade that has nothing to do with my past. Where I can jump from freedom to freedom, exploring this entire globe for a task that can keep me entertained.
We can watch a movie and decide what to do on a summery saturday night with our equally fortunate friends, Or drive to a desolate place and lie in the grass in silence and stare at the heavens in awe.
And in making such decisions and spending time on our weekends as we do, We still have the freedom to write ridculous little verses on our time consuming machines
~!~ A spoken Word is a Moment. A written Word is Eternal ~!~