If There Ever Was Such A thing to begin with?
Where does one begin with a story that has no end? An anecdote from the past that one holds for the sake of their own publicity effort was essential to why the ended up where they have found themselves today? I was a kid. Always a child star. A Mickey Rooney of a man! No matter what I did ever considered the half-pint. God knows what others thought? I had to contend with the man. This world soon presents itself to many as an arts and crafts exercise. You grow up watching your father or your mother and in this age some form of TV. The later pretending to be the reflection of the former. And you are there in-between ever at wonder about how this should effect you? I was not prepared for my own emotions. I never was. They always appeared to be the wrong ones at the wrong times in the wrong places. You have a need so you suppress it. It’s hard to make that seem lyrical without pages and chapters to justify its presence to others through art. The craft part comes after long observation of where you have gone right amidst so many failures in the past.
Consider the short scenario of a boy that wants to be a man who has a plan that he can never say is his own. But like most situations of this kind that doesn’t stop him from trying to abide by it. After all someone sometime long ago told him it was expected. So amidst this also he runs across others of a gender opposite of his own that seems so close but impossibly far away in fact like the star Arcturus. It is bright and the most visible of all others but the idea of having any real contact with it is just impossible. Why? He falls in with someone young for the price of a few compliments of praise over some brilliant achievement of the moment. Some young ingenue saw something in him and got their first. But unfortunately, some other male got there first with her so nothing substantial can ever go down. The world becomes a place where more bright shining moments have to be conjured up to ever find another her. The trial and error of the oil over water clear plexi-rocking box of emotions of post adolescence. Something that one never quite supersedes.
Along the way finality comes to call. Despite all one’s best efforts there is never again a “See you later!” that one can depend on. For with each new chapter there is always a past that is faster than the now. Your words once spoken stand in reserve to be spoken again. But then one day you run out of words. You run out of people to say them with. That someone so long ago that you meant something to that you know you grievously disappointed all because you turned out to be just you. Not there in any substantial way because you were always trying to figure out the past to make the future bearable. The world is your star at that point. Ever bright in the sky but no longer any aspirations to reach out in the surrounding darkness anymore. You’ve had your chance the script reads. You are no more. So this thing called love is then an abstract. The connection between you and others a rope bridge of the paucity of the most available hanging vines. Dare you cross it once again now that it has gone to rot? You realize that pain has no special home within which to dwell. No special face to play large before you as it once did like in the cinema at the movie’s end some twenty feet high. You are forever and therefore how you are is also forever so. Cursed though you would not have it so with that temptation to complete your oneness in duality. The little story so pathetic now of guy meets girl and shows himself unworthy so she dumps him but then she later regrets it for he finds another and she makes sure that her final parting is noted so that the two of them can die eternally so. A truly pathetic little tale in the ongoing Gotterdammerung of contemporary society of the workhouse. It seems to go on forever.