“And lightning struck the earth! And the air was electric with his folly! Years of it leaking out, confined; then split open from cannon unseen upon the horizon save for a split second of that pain released. Too many years of self-deception reciting to himself all his own noble thoughts while simply hiding within the vale of the safety of his own incremental self-destruction. This hidden paint job too obviously close to the surface and worn like a medallion of vainglorious pride. It celebrating a faux sort of phony nighty; pretending to hide while only serving to reveal. Mollusk! A storm was in flight threatening to mow down all within his direction. And so foolishly, he came forth naked to greet it!”
How odd to realize at so late a date that everything I was convinced was correct had been in fact completely wrongheaded to the point of being self-destructive. Might I have been better walking backwards step by step over my own previous footprints and into the shadows while guiding myself with a pocket mirror held over the shoulder. To explain the lost possibilities of a life not properly tapped has more to do with dialogues between societies more than what is to be considered art. Art being the constant conflict between a popular sense of common entertainment and what seems to be everlastingly eternal captured upon canvas and in stone perfectly describing the human condition.
But then, who am I to comment on anything? Considered by the regular everyday working straight world as a non-starter. And be their bosses as another faceless useless eater. If indeed, I haven’t been so all along! Daring to claim some special knowledge of a knowledge of the world that in reality might be second or third hand at best. Claiming the right to make definitive conclusions that never take into account a need to know things from up close; and then factor the complexities of the valid points in view made by the players. Most general information available at ground level being well-crafted public opinions slanted towards some form of hidden gain or possible self-interest by hidden individuals or their phantom organizations lost from plain view lurking behind the scenes.
I can only put my own head down upon the kitchen counter just above its sharp edge and wonder who will be behind me just out of sight trying to take advantage of my broken back while demanding that I pleasurefully enjoy it. This is not the right narrative to even mention; so I must play the fool! I don’t wish to be the tinker or the Jew man on the cart collecting all the useless castoffs of others to hawk for the biggest profit. So I am alone. This is no longer the roar of a young and competent lion. The gateway you pretend to search for resides within yourself. Some age like well-tended fine wine and then some become spoiled and go sour in the bottle. Some become walking repositories chronicling their own existence amidst the ravages of their own lifetime’s indolent trauma.
Maybe I am a dope? Maybe that is the awful truth! it becomes very difficult to cast a sunny eye forth into a familiar world that is rapidly disappearing. As it becomes very difficult for an older woman to forgo the longstanding illusion of her own beauty to the public, it equally affects a man to lose the possibility of his own prowess. His cry for help no longer a useful necessity to all others as he might have once been when just born. No more genuine attention ceded to either in the wane of that simple physical engagement of just being lovingly held. Rather than an encumbrance, something that hopefully can be disposed of as soon as possible to clear the way for something ‘new‘ and better.