Wondering Around Wandering
December 31, 2015
Another year arrives. Many will see it and seize it as an opportunity to begin anew. They may resolve and fail laughably/miserably or achieve their personal goals and delight in self-elation. Others will view it as a sequel of the previous, a monotonous repetition of the last 365 days. Without as much as a “hurrah” they will dredge into the new, lifting their feet just enough to clear the threshold, on which some will stumble and fall blindly head first into… something new, same old s*** or nothing at all? It’s all a matter of perception and a perception of the matter.
“The crushed butt smolders; choking and dying in its own refuse. Its silent death cries waft up, becoming momentarily beautiful when captured in the dull artificial light seeping through the window. Then invisibly dispersing, soaking into the walls and coating everything they touch with delicious decaying death. He really should quit. It’s killing him but then again what isn’t these days?”
It has been said that what doesn’t kill us can only make us stronger. But what if you’re in the process of being killed? Like being eaten alive by a bear or slowly crushed by a bulldozer? Do you become somehow stronger because it hasn’t killed you just yet? Does this philosophy still apply if something is killing you slowly like a disease or boredom? Sure your mental perception and demeanor would alter but is it making you a better person? Or is it just the result of the realization of having a definitive time frame? They say people can’t change so will you be any different in your dying moments? Some things can’t change they can only evolve or push onward until they are no more.
“Lingering smoke trails swirl as he rises, not bearing the weight of the world just burdened by his own. To be considered later, for now he must dress for the journey ahead. The shirt is tattered, the gloves are worn, both need to be replaced or retired but for now they serve function as symbols of the trek.
The most symbolic almost sacred item hangs by the door. Shouldering the saw’s strap he lets the 20” blade run down his spine. Pausing here, he contemplates whether or not anybody gets it. Does anyone understand the meaning behind…there is no time, for it is short and rapidly running out.”
A time of change can be anytime, but we choose an annual event to do so? Are we so bound by the confines of time? Many would claim that freedom is our greatest gift and still we are slaves to the unyielding hands of the clock, (or electronic digital readout if you prefer). More than riches, fame or glory is it craved. Yet wealthy or impoverished all are allotted the same ration. When it runs out we face the darkness and what lies beyond.
“Stepping out into the cool night, darkness embraces him. Looking back there is a twang of longing as his heartstrings are strummed. The same pushes him ever onward for what is left behind is carried within, and without this journey could not be made. Promises, forever promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep.”
We promise others that we will and that we can do better. Make things better for them and for ourselves. Though it seems the promises we break most often are the ones we make within. Why do we endlessly lie to ourselves just to get through the day? The afternoons coming, the weekends on the way, it’s almost vacation and then… more of the same. Or is it all a matter of negative perception? We can’t live for each moment like it’s our last. But shouldn’t we try to find the joy in each moment? Get our minds on the right track and head down a more positive path?
“The tracks are achieved with nary a train in sight. One could perceive that he would long to simply be a passenger on the train of thought. However his so often goes off track that it’s much easier to take the scenic route and cover the distance on foot. Then a pause…something there on the timber catches the eye; a bright red barrel of monkeys’ monkey with no barrel to call home. An abstract thought perhaps? Perhaps it’s a representation of an insane bit of inspiration towards an artistically styled endeavor in the future? Or maybe it’s just a little plastic monkey. Whatever the case may be, for the moment it means something…everything and thus he pockets it. Eleven more and he’ll have an earth shattering plague. But for now the one will do and the trestles call. Stepping between them he allots a sigh and mounts a trademarked smirk. Here we go again.”
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