We are not the Golden or the Beat or the Boomers but we are products of all. We are the nameless, the ones without a synchronized sound smacked against our forehead. We are the faultless who carry the flaws of society heavy on our shoulders–floundering, nearly cracking our backs and bruising our craniums. We are trying to solve the problems that our own population has created–and with this of course we experience only resistance. We are stale.
We are grappling, our mouths gaping for words–we’re getting no where with this nonsense of sounds. While we wonder what ways we can war with our problems, we are merely waiting. We wallow and watch but we do not do. We are stagnant in progress yet so malignant in our mistakes. And the poison only seeps and spreads and slides under the doorway of every institution–our poison feeds these institutions that we hate and condemn… the institutions that probe and de-cel and rule over us and set our standards and generate requirements that we can never possibly live up to–thus, forcing us to settle for less, thus, constituting this current living as failure and inadequacy and lesserness because we, the humans, say so.
We beat bloody and bash into our brains that this is all what ought to be but in reality what we think is real doesn’t exist and what doesn’t exist just might be–or maybe could be. We have let the ones before us define and we have settled for interpretation, when we should be making. If we continue on this monotonous, sickly path then it is our destruction–dry and unforgiving demise–that we will have achieved.
We must rise instead of rot. Demand instead of die. Want instead of waiver. Forgive and especially forget. Renew instead of repeat. Stop cryin’ and being to cry out.
For what does any of this mean if we don’t do what we want? Yet what exactly is the bother to do something if the world we are inhabiting will end up as no thing. I guess we will have to keep trying over and over and over again to figure it all out–isn’t that what the insane do anyhow? Doesn’t it seem that we’re all distinctly and whimsically insane somethings but we don’t know what things just trying to make it here trapped in our otherwise useless bundles of flesh that we puppet around and present as windows into our so-called selves.
Unless an individual has experienced that sacred and scarring moment–sitting there blank–the split second when one realizes it’s all illuding, the whole of it. (And the panic sets in) Then no one is truly alive. To be alive is to move on after that moment.
And so we write intending to stir.