The course of one’s life varies with the weather of chaos known as chance. Some say these chances like destiny are of our own making. The accumulation of experiences that count as attempts that ran far afield of the present tense goal of a temporal desire gone astray. The sense of same finding the visual accompaniment of an albatross that like an Ancient Mariner flies abreast of our course but that cannot be detoured save by a form of determined self-destruction. Before the electronic era this might have been ascribed to an omen manifested in some form of unexpected natural phenomena. Now it resonates from the latest celebrated television series or movie sequels. Not as a guiding conversation of the unconscious about of the most suitable avatar to emulate. But as a presaged reflection whose greatest impact comes from becoming part and parcel intertwined with personal experiences of one’s past. The coming and going’s of others in our lives. Those who for a while are significant and then become rusty effigies of a lost world that are only significant of what one once wanted but could never have in the first place. The come back like reruns to haunt by summoning old emotions and building in the present tense upon them creating a concrete castle that should have been a marble monument instead. The message locked within that we are not who we wish to be but who we always end up resembling. Narcissus with the head ever disembodied and floating around in the limbo of past desires never resolved.
The dark days of the soul safe saved up in the storeroom for review at those times of an approaching finality. No weight or measure accurate enough to distinguish hurt from happiness. No reprieve from realizing one’s errant nature to take the immediacy of an experience customarily for granted. The illusion of permanency of life a primal illusion offering the pharmacology of enduring security. The society of windows who believes that the world without is somehow separate and removed format he world within. This intermediate barrier in houses and automobiles giving false assurance that their is always time to act in our own behalf in-between. The carnage of daily life laying down a sediment that becomes all too apparent to others. Our anthem silently sung like a jingle too often played to ever be considered effective. This is the root of the desire for that thing called ‘change’. The quicksilver salvation to transform all the accumulation of the past intuit he promise of ever regenerating eternal youth. But mere decisions alone to pursue same can only all but fail. No one can swim above the quicksand of themselves. The realization of that larger saga in the story of one’s life as a whole casting a shadow over all existence to come. One might at best lose themselves in some triviality of a different routine. But one must leave it in the end totally anonymous. Unrecognized and unrecognizable to that public sense of self that stands reinforced and manmade.