Dusk settles and the city is getting accustomed to the season, people beginning to creep in and out of their daily and nightly lives at times established as more appropriate in seasons less accomodating. Each routine is beautiful, yet carries with it the lingering sadness of the knowledge that, with each second spent following a pattern of comfort and leisure, yet another portion of space/time allocated to maintaining a living, breathing creature sits wasted.
I can't be sure if it's the knowledge that part of the fabric which binds our perceived reality together goes toward perpetuating our seemingly inevitable ineffectiveness that drives the people I find in my new life to escapism, but I'd like to think that the idea at least occurs to some of them in any way, shape or form, even if it's simply on a personal level. It's been a relief to find people waiting like me, burning valuable seconds forgetting the aggregate small compromises that culminate in hopes dashed, conflicted as to whether or not pursuing passion is really worth the invariably pyrrhic triumph of simple dedication, ultimately painfully (self-)aware that acknowledgement is the best we can ask for, and success, if it can be called that, is simply measured in the ability to reconcile the compromises with the passion without being overcome with the desire to abandon everything one way or the other. The spectre of luck haunts us all, though, teasing us with glimpses of things that allow us to think maybe, just maybe, we can happen upon a shortcut, and even that makes us aware of our own self-delusion, and, as in most cases when a human's inevitable humanity is revealed to them, it drives even more in one or more directions.
And sure, I'm just speculating, but I'd like to delude myself into believing a) this is in any way a good idea and b) I'm not the only person crazy enough to actually come up with it.
Sol and his shroud dance at the horizon and I'm indoors as always, plugged into a sound so beautiful I have to be crazy to appreciate it, trying to think my way to bliss, because I only do shots of noise, lines of words and hits of ideas.
I can't be sure if it's the knowledge that part of the fabric which binds our perceived reality together goes toward perpetuating our seemingly inevitable ineffectiveness that drives the people I find in my new life to escapism, but I'd like to think that the idea at least occurs to some of them in any way, shape or form, even if it's simply on a personal level. It's been a relief to find people waiting like me, burning valuable seconds forgetting the aggregate small compromises that culminate in hopes dashed, conflicted as to whether or not pursuing passion is really worth the invariably pyrrhic triumph of simple dedication, ultimately painfully (self-)aware that acknowledgement is the best we can ask for, and success, if it can be called that, is simply measured in the ability to reconcile the compromises with the passion without being overcome with the desire to abandon everything one way or the other. The spectre of luck haunts us all, though, teasing us with glimpses of things that allow us to think maybe, just maybe, we can happen upon a shortcut, and even that makes us aware of our own self-delusion, and, as in most cases when a human's inevitable humanity is revealed to them, it drives even more in one or more directions.
And sure, I'm just speculating, but I'd like to delude myself into believing a) this is in any way a good idea and b) I'm not the only person crazy enough to actually come up with it.
Sol and his shroud dance at the horizon and I'm indoors as always, plugged into a sound so beautiful I have to be crazy to appreciate it, trying to think my way to bliss, because I only do shots of noise, lines of words and hits of ideas.
epithet:
if brothers don't smile, they should... especially you.