Boys and girls all over the walkways, playing kickball, huddling in groups, leading pointless and unknown lives, ignorant of ignorance, being watched and admired and lusted over, never knowing, nor caring, nor tackling the futileness of their own wasteful existence, squandering hope and grace and love as if it were pocket-change, scraped yellow to the bone. Convinced they are centers of centers, a complex web of talk and thought; lovers, friends, acquaintances. Life in all its spectacle and glory will fall, whiether, and waste, just as we all will.
It is not fun to be caught between a lie and a truth, and not be able to tell one from the other. Terrible it is to find yourself on the brink of despair, teetering on the edge of the bridge, wanting to step down and wanting to leap: hope or resignation? How much worse it is to believe you are something when you are nothing, and worse still to see yourself as nothing when you are something; but nothing or something, both have the same end. Fall. Wither. Waste. forgotten. Eat. Drink. Screw. Fear God, or don't. You will still die.
"What have we to look forward to?" Everything is cyclical. It is the story of the ages. The seasons speak its name: winter turns into spring, spring turns into summer, summer turns into fall, fall turns into winter. An eternal cycle that spins about without the slightest thought or murmur. Sometimes I feel as if my life is the Halloween version of "Winter Wonderland"; I yearn and long and pray for spring to arrive, and I believe it will come... But it will evolve into summer, and summer will decay with fall, and the great pain and suffering of winter will make its face known again. And I will be on my knees again--so many times!--praying for, waiting for, longing for spring to come.
I clasp onto hope. I wrap my fingers tight around it. Sometimes it feels like barbed wire: the harder I squeeze, the more pain it causes me. But I refuse to let go.
fall
wither
waste
forgotten
It is not fun to be caught between a lie and a truth, and not be able to tell one from the other. Terrible it is to find yourself on the brink of despair, teetering on the edge of the bridge, wanting to step down and wanting to leap: hope or resignation? How much worse it is to believe you are something when you are nothing, and worse still to see yourself as nothing when you are something; but nothing or something, both have the same end. Fall. Wither. Waste. forgotten. Eat. Drink. Screw. Fear God, or don't. You will still die.
"What have we to look forward to?" Everything is cyclical. It is the story of the ages. The seasons speak its name: winter turns into spring, spring turns into summer, summer turns into fall, fall turns into winter. An eternal cycle that spins about without the slightest thought or murmur. Sometimes I feel as if my life is the Halloween version of "Winter Wonderland"; I yearn and long and pray for spring to arrive, and I believe it will come... But it will evolve into summer, and summer will decay with fall, and the great pain and suffering of winter will make its face known again. And I will be on my knees again--so many times!--praying for, waiting for, longing for spring to come.
I clasp onto hope. I wrap my fingers tight around it. Sometimes it feels like barbed wire: the harder I squeeze, the more pain it causes me. But I refuse to let go.
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