If you need some reality in an otherwise fantasy clouded existence let me say that the little game of pretend that you have put yourself through for all of your adult life has not yet to pay a dividend. Self delusion is a fine art when practiced by experts. A daily exercise in obsession amidst an engine of society that says, “better“, “faster“, “bigger“, “taller“, and “more!“, “More!“, MORE!” It is truly attending to see the amount of technology and physical resources dedicated to creating mass hysterical fantasies. First of course we fear and hunger. Fear of being clunked over the head and being eaten by man beast or he elements. Then when things got a little calmer due to a high unstoppable birthrate and some sunny weather the next hurtle was keeping up the cooperation without stepping forward to volunteer to stop spears, slings, arrows, or cannon balls flung in your direction. And now, in an ever expanding word ‘sans souci‘ of religion or lasting moral reparations, please find a cave person plateau of the alter ego as ‘ubermensch‘ as it has been foretold. The body stuck within the recycling jaws of the body corporate that assimilates all in the name of all of the above to bring you what you have been deluding yourself all along that you absolutely needed at the expense of friends, family and lovers! Yourself!
Go ahead and try that on your flying monkeys if you dare!
And in the end, mere minutes after the last breath all that struggle becomes a useless little bit of clay on its way to Potter’s filed. Zipped up nicely in a large plastic bag with a toe tag. All humbleness aside all that self-pretense that initially was so difficult to maintain to prevail over that undefined person within that felt so naked to the vagaries of the world outside is, “poof!“, gone! Gone and flown. Flown and blown as if a telephone call from a former creditor blown off for the very last time. You life’s work and all that daily struggle by the hour and the minute, second by second, shown up for what it always was. A ruse covering a mask over the face of someone that even your couldn’t figure out how they had gained entrance to the building? All that is left is a bunch of stuff that was persistently arranged with some vague purpose that you were going to eventually get to when you got the time. Except of course, “Time’s up!“. Now it is a quick trip to the garbage dump or some relative or friend’s attic or basement to wait for more room in that communal hoard of humanity known to professional archaeology as cultural detritus. Pick and choose the artifacts of the past so as to keep the same old game going on in the future for the fools that think that they are in power.
That big invisible wound up spring based mechanical clock that is ever in the process of slowly winding down. The need to express what lurks within that dark inner corner that has been diminished to believing that there is never next to naught. The noise from without that seems to be recycled noise from some other mouth long before your own. Those same old tired words that you recite but do not want to believe it, “I am not a trained monkey trying to back flip more than anyone else to get strokes!” Accompanied arm in arm without that sneaking suspicion that, “I am sure I am not getting the wealth in sufficient bucks for my trouble for hanging around to take more of this abuse!“. How far can you go on with next to no gas in your old rusty automobile’s tank? And the biggest question at that certain un-tender absolutely cynical unreachable later age of far past it that asks, “Why go on?”
[pause and silence] . . . while I ponder . . . To answer that one you would really have to believe in logic! You would really have to understand that it is all a fearful little game of boredom that can not be relieved. Those moments in-between that only accumulate to the completion of a larger task. A tower of Babel upwards to the sky. But not an ancient siege tower or a modern parapet to the sky to nuzzle the ear of that unseeable motivating force that so many want to refer to a God. Or just give hime or her a big wet kiss! No. Just an exercise in producing something that the next generation will tear down and replace with its own pile. A legacy of creation and urban renewal that will go on until a larger chaos of the universe unseen and unknowable takes hold of the larger anthill and pours water on it. The flood of celestial tears regenerating the whole operation back down to scratch.
Perhaps, after all, that is the real need for a mask? . . . a fantasy? . . . a good well-developed game of self-delusion? It may be that it is a one revolution go around type of merry go round? Something that you don’t give up your seat on because once you do a chance for that ride will never come again! Not tomorrow and not ever. One chance and that’s it. That is your answer. Wear your mask if you wish. But with mask or otherwise, the fantasy is that this just isn’t so.