Every Little Thing
There is a time for poetry: words that wail of lost futures, pasts of fortune, pity and plight. There is even time for wonder, in the dawn, and in the night. But here, unbeknownst among those who falter and soar, is the answer. Sadly, even fortitude cannot avail perfection here. There is no soul in the hurry, or the serious, to lambaste the pace of wonder.
It is a sad thing, that we rail against commonality of purpose. Tell us lies and we accept all but the most abhorrent, and truths we make of less. For the instant, everything seems utter perfection; simplicity itself to embrace the obvious answer presented in a sterilized package. But it is not the pace, but the ferocity boiling within that steers our doom. A gnashing, barely restrained leviathan tears at bonds imposed by society; little niceties observed that allow functionality for a world awash in billions.
Quests seem far and away, like a hallway stretching into infinity. ‘Tis a safety sought, and all for nought. Whether a crash, a mishap, a freak occurrence or tragedy befalls the unwary: it is over. But still everything is planned: school, work, investments, children, retirement; all. Life in a package, bought and consumed, folded, spindled, and mutilated.
We are not consumers, for we are draught enough. The bonds of conformity chafe us so, and individuality is branded upon us to indicated authenticity in its absence. So what of this? If it mattered, we would rage! Complacency and formulaic emptiness is revolting yet heavily beaten path. These are the tatters of ourselves, the bitter vestiges of what little potential maintained past the long years of self-discovery. It is a sickening fate, but worse to accept it so blithely and without question. The wrongness should assault senses beyond all measure, sensibilities frothing with sheer wild untenable caustic will.
But somehow, we are broken, unable to wield the extraordinary gift bestowed for a limited time only. We waste our adventure farming for riches unenjoyable, running from fates undeniable, striking out in empty and silent frustration; yet we continue unchanged. These are the little things, insignificant and false, trips and troubles that catch us unwary in need. This is our prison: a race unwinnable with no prize. We run with gleeful jagged purpose in the direction we were flung, and hope it is enough.
The days pass, and nostalgia brings tales of paths untraveled, choices unmade, and lessons ignored. Yet we travel on. We travel on, and we travel on. Through the stitched clothing upon our bodies, on the sharp streets of our cities, and the harsh words for our fellow man, we travel on and on, unshaken yet stale and frightfully impotent. It is abomination, that such a thing as the daily drudge exists at all! The careless and the selfish continue, unaware of even themselves; there is no other distance ahead. Art, music, literature, wonders of the world are but waste in the true reality.
Life is empty, existence is void, persistence is less. For beings capable of self-awareness, greater things await, yet remain unexplored. So we wait, and I wait. No great philosopher can answer the question through significant amounts of meandering conjecture or directed analysis! There is no answer left unquestioned, and simplicity slips away forever.
If there is anything, there is this: listen. Words and jumbles and religions, bawdy tales, tears, wonder, and more. There are few, and time awaits the explorers. We inquire so little, it is no wonder we fear the lurking terrors beyond. But they can not cause harm beyond self-infliction as even the best of us trundle and crash through the murky infinity. Beyond that meek horizon sits welcome and righteousness. Not a god, or a devil, or reincarnation, or crushing oblivion, but salvation. Nothing is so important to cause displeasure; rejecting practicality for the core of ourselves, is the only light of enlightenment.
Simply be. The pitfalls of common daily life engraved on each brick, paper, and bulb that seek to dictate foreign elements upon the wary will find no purchase. Life is worth more when no worth is assigned at all, for we are priceless, all.
Is every little thing we do really that important? Is life so insignificant and commonplace that it no longer holds value? We strive to the next day, the next job, the next paycheck, but even with the mockery we call vacations, or the dim days of retirement, we hardly enjoy the fruits of our lives. We are lost in anger, in frustration, in fear, doubt, and and endless struggle to simply reach the next day, or ensure we have a future. It’s such a ruthless, clawing existence that I find it holds no value. We hate so much, yet know so little. To what end? For what purpose do we pursue efficiency, politics, or even purported religious salvation, with such fervent devotion that we forget to enjoy life and those around us?
We are a people in constant conflict without regard for the cause, and it frightens and sickens me all at once. It’s not so much the pace, but the lack of concern, direction, or even meaning to our daily toils, that troubles me to the very core. I can’t help but feel that we should all be doing something else, yet the momentum we’ve reached as a global society will not allow deviation. Kill or be killed, every man for himself, seems the order for the day. Even the self-professed pagans I know have joined the real-estate insanity, began contributing their 2.3 children, and plan to retire in their 60’s. Does nobody aspire for a different path? Is such a thing even possible anymore? I just wish I could adequately articulate the true question burning in my skull that binds this all together…