The tides of fortune are not governed by some celestial power of chance so much as they are the happenstance of greater manmade narratives in progress. Dawn seems to arrive most mornings in a conventional sense even where the weather is finagled by current power mad science. This cloak over waking thoughts and energy cast upon my own birdcage yielding a consistent uneasiness over my own separation within the grid structured horizon of the domiciles of the rest of humanity that extends in every direction plunging me into dutiful insignificance. So much so that at this point I can expect nothing more than my remaining residue to be gracelessly unmarked as a medical specimen separated under the scalpel under the marching parade banner of further education. Sentimentality about such things waning to the expected point of emotional separation from all things human in the posture of professional uncaring. Love and attraction to others seems too expensive a proposition for someone who continually has bankrupted his own account of same. So as a pitiless creature cast in the mold of he imminence of the prototypical ‘new man’, I face the rocky expanse of heat and cold extending far past the warming flames of our own solar restless orb. The dust of eons seems utterly cold to the touch like sandpaper frozen in countless nebulae. I count out the remaining minutes like links in a chain wondering if will ever find a point of final attachment? The illusory world about me of unreasoning hopes and repetitively perspired best wishes bobbing out of reach like a vast sea of bottle caps.
The superficial appearance of habitually encountered random events bespeak the silent architect of fear. Hesitation before the engagement of a randomly chosen task or journey that leaves the boundaries of the accustomed in favor for the eventual rendezvous with chaos. Who goes jumping off the cliff blindly without looking below for something to catch one’s fall? Yet, one feels imprisoned when window shopping other lives and patently constructed private realities. The motivating element of Capitalism being that greener grass forever out of reach next door. The nagging feeling of missing out on something not present within one’s own experience still a matter of creative imagination and therefore present in one’s existence. That sense of emptiness of one cavity overfilled just beyond the one that is nearly empty. Even in the act of procreation does one find this sort of imbalance. The waves of successive consciousness sloshing back and forth over decades washing away the splinters impacted by bad run in’s with conflicting needs.
The repeating cycle of light and dark and finely scheduled bodily demands. A phantom clockwork that imposes the fiction of a higher rational collective order upon what would be a solitary path that eventually runs its course. Whatever is told within the confines of these impulses fitting in with a mounting repetition of excuses and could have been’s. This is the game of the rational attempting to stop the boulder of one’s soul upon the incline of existence. Just when the peak has been reached after centuries of effort to build speed with inertia comes the decline where things take off uncontrollably leaving original intent behind. And like any carnival clown, one is left behind bounding to and fro attempting to catch up with one’s own Leviathan that they are solely responsible for unleashing upon the remainder of their own species. The final question after the inevitable crash being where does all this energy go? Is it simply a random act like the rain? Or is there really something else that even though unknowable has both cause and ultimate purpose?