People have become colourless, all vibrancy faded and a sallow grey mist descends and envelops, its texture slightly oily like petrol in a puddle. And so it clings to us until we cant help but be choked. The focus of life is no longer to live but to collect, to hoard and endlessly consume like the worker creatures of summer, so that in the barren winters of our old age we could look around and feel oddly comforted by the items that surround us, items that we feel we have earned... but this supposed reality is an empty one and with frightningly accepted inevitability such are our lives. We persue dreams with a complete lack of interest, we obtain goals to pretend they are not worthless, we walk to reach our destination and the moments in between are wasted, a useless by-product in our struggle to hit an externally projected target, we are a workers army and worse still we are one that has lost sight of our original intention. Much like the fray of a battle, it becomes perfectly acceptable to tread on others, to grasp all you can, to fight and strive and use any means neccessary to emerge victorious...and for what? For some tiny squares of paper. Some mounds of metal that in reality we care nothing for. We dont want them and furthermore we dont want the things they can bring us. What we really chase after is a concept, a feeling, the desperate assumtion that those tiny squares of paper will bring us happiness, joy, prosperity, love, friendship, the realisation of our wildest dreams! The tradegy is that nothing could possibly be further from the truth. One grasps the unnerving concept that this is not unlike a childs game, blown out of all proportion and gone terribly awry...Our culture is inexcapably truly insane, built on the dreams of a raging madman, carried on the backs of his demented ruined descendants and follwed by the increasingly unhinged masses. The final nail in the coffin of mankind will likely come unexpected, like a blow to the back the head, when we finally cease to question the plausability of a life half lived. A show or pretence, presented not in glorious technicolour, but instead in a very dreary monotonal pallette. We will then trully be the ambling dead. Run! Quick, dash! Before your very worst nightmare could run alongside...
I like little pieces of paper. they usually have such pretty pictures and take me on such wild rides. word on your post.
Paha, well I never thought of it quite like that...perhaps if everybody chased after those little pieces of paper instead then the world would be a much happier place...
I like the way you write. All that matters is happiness, no question... The question is how to reach it?
Thank you for your support, I notice you commented on my piece in the poetry forum also, I just try to write for a bit of a holiday really, if it helps other people see my way then I am overjoyed, seriously... One tiny bit of support helps me in the long run to believe in myself and to go on writing and spreading my own message to other people...My only hope is that you all will, eventually, agree... Peace out xxx
