In the Manner of a Disgraced Athlete
Tragedy requires an audience but even the smallest will do. I've found the same resistance must be pushed against every single morning, even still. I wonder if what I know can be easily explained away, but I don't wonder it for long.
I've spent most of my life in rebellion against the traps that snared me ever tighter on account of the struggle. I only know that mercy adds nothing to shareholder value and has therefore been outlawed in the central economy.
Once, I understood this intuitively, then academically, and now my intuitive understanding has returned. Nonsense may be a form of resistance, but if so
it's an ineffective one. I've learned that depression is cyclical, as are the economic
seasons. Beyond that I'm sure of nothing and am unable to form a coherent acceptance of the situation at hand. Even our modes of belief have formed improperly, imposed on us by outside forces.
Yesterday I took the glass jars over in a cardboard box and enjoyed their musical clatter as they jostled about within my bear hug. The new house holds the primeval mystery of tomorrow and our role in it. I came disguised in a cloak of nonsense and so went undetected, an imperative for survival in our state of Total War.
As more things break we gain greater visibility of the true battleground, only to realize
we were long ago disarmed. What's conditional is everything, no matter how much concrete we pump into the soil. I can only claim allegiance to life from the viewpoint
of a kayaker gone over the falls.