|
Unpalatable before/after
Life is fucked.
I have options, but nothing seems right.
Don't know what to do at this point. Nothing really seems real or palatable.
Its times like these when I could surrender my freewill effortlessly.
A cult, incarceration, commitment to an asylum. These kind of seem like fine options to me.
Not that these are the options of which I speak. Its just that sometimes I don't want to do the thinking for myself.
Or the struggle. Life is a struggle, and I'm so much more acutely aware of this as the years slip bye.
As a child, you never think of it. Happy on an asteroid of my parents making.
Then as a teen, its an angstful desire to slip the bonds which one perceives as holding one back. Bound.
Early twenties, I found myself for the first time. Then, for me, the struggle was just beggining.
But I was in college, and again, everything was provided for me. I simply needed to find a binding rationale for living.
And now, seemingly with the world as my oyster, I'd rather tuck my head under the covers and sleep late.
Pretend that the world doesn't loathe my use. My consumption. My needs and wants. Pretend that the world as a whole, really wouldn't get by just that imperceptable bit better without me, regardless of what the people who love me think.
I want another option. Take my freewill. Just let me have some paper and a pencil. Let me have my guitar, and I could give a fuck about the rest of existance.
But no. Bills, bills, bills. Go get this, because I will need that tomorrow. Get this peice of paper, and that documentation, because my existance under the hedgemony of The Man dictates thats what I need to do.
Lock the car door, put up the windows. Don't forget the license, proof of insurance and registration.
Wash the clothes, feed myself, buy more food, because I'll need it tomorrow.
Make money, because it makes the circle go 'round. Even though the first people lived by picking food off the vine. hardly a struggle, wasn't it? Finding the right bushes. Rubbing sticks together. Catching some animal for meat. Catching a fish. Sleeping. Fucking. And that's about it.
Now I must know how to tie a half-windsor knot. How to iron a shirt. How to make nice, have friends, put on the happy face, wear the right clothes, talk the right way. Tuck the shirt in. When to leave it un-tucked.
Write checks. Where to go. Go see. Be seen.
I just don't care about any of that. I don't want any of that. Never have.
I have options, but they are so unpalatable to me.
|
