Of Burdens and Birthrights

Metamorphosis is a lot like it sounds; considerably scarier than the actual process. The humorous part of the whole endeavor is that you aren’t really aware of it until after the fact—merely existing as usual in our continual humdrum huzzah that leaves life all blurs of conditions to be met and satisfied. When we manually remove the obstruction, reveling in the actual moment, it is then we see how change is indeed possible—even in the remotest hearts, or fortified minds. Whether it be a person, object, or event, something or another starts the avalanche rolling, and the subtle nuances disappear and mutate into something altogether different, alien at first, but in actuality, more a simulacrum of our former selves.

The mirror reflects only what you will it. With Dorian Grey weighing on your mind, it is inevitable that decadence brushes the tips of your subconscious, imbuing you with the faults you secretly squirrel away from the world. We are the revolution in thought; constantly turning and churning to compensate for the vast light years of our own thought’s creation. Stopping is the fleeting kiss of death’s lips---we are the Cassady-bound-Tinsmith-searching masses that seek the truth in the constant fluctuation and propelling of desire into the unknown “next” moment. Let us chase the future if we must, if only to soothe the impertinent woes of the present, yet that won’t erase nor soothe the conundrums we devour in underland nonsense. Truth and only truth, the maxim above all else that is the true mitochondria of life; we seek nothing more than the infinitesimal grain of falsity that taints the purity of our Edenistic selves. What option do we have but to intoxicate on the second-rate revelatory truths that will satiate the personal cache of our pockmarked insecurities?

Chase futilely on into the forever setting sun; the paths sprawled out like diseased roots of the life tree….congealing into the horizon, dust-coated--- forever mocking in possibility. Indecision is the root, the tethers of a family life of responsibility and respectability; it is this that turns the body about face---leaving neck to scalding Helios---it is this that makes us move, for we have to move, if not for ourselves, then for the person the world needs of us. How long can the charade be played, façade maintained? For as long as the undying thirst of acceptance and reliance burdens your soul….carry on in the facsimile world, cherish the few honest kernels, perhaps that’s all we were ever meant to deserve...