The curtains are drawn. The lights are low. Here in the depths of my imagination, in my little hollow where no one can disturb me, where I am king and my word is law, the drab reality of workday living is obvious and the sun struggles to find it’s way through the barriers barring it’s path, it’s promise to light the road ahead and bring a new dawn as flimsy as the pledges of a false prophet.
The broken fawcett of despair cries tears of desperation, drop after drop falling on saturated ground, a morass nurtured, second by second, a bog created, catching those innocents unlucky enough to stumble into the quagmire, condemning them, like a bug trapped in a spider’s web, to a certain fate.
The degredation of attitude and enthusiasm continues as the solid ground holding my morale in place is weathered and eroded by the roaring, rolling river of discontent sweeping over it. I wobble, my balance precarious, yet I never fall.
The ghastly faces of those I detest, livid and deformed, leer at me as I go about my business, their dull minds right at home in their congregation of deceit, where ability is no matter and only those with an axe to grind or a lie to spread seem to soar.
It is no matter to me. I continue alone on the long and winding road, my closest comrades having abandoned me, gone to a higher plane to forget about their ordinary lives and relax with family and friends, imaginary defences securely in place lest the ghosts of the past try to molest them. They will be back soon enough to face the fire.
And so, alone, defenceless, only hands, feet and mind to see me through and fight the darkness, those around me but bit players in this long and tiresome tale, struggling to make an impact in the news feed of my life, I will march again to the beat of the drum, a solemn duty to perform, motions to be enacted with no glamour or affection. Another day at work.
I will survive of course. I always do. There is not danger enough in this campaign to do me harm. Mind and body pass the most rigourous of tests. It is my spirit which is in mortal danger.
But after the trial has been enacted for another day, and the dust settles on another tepid performance, I will return to my hollow, deep down inside and I will wander the magnificent halls and passageways I have built for myself. And I will be happy.
Have a nice day.
The broken fawcett of despair cries tears of desperation, drop after drop falling on saturated ground, a morass nurtured, second by second, a bog created, catching those innocents unlucky enough to stumble into the quagmire, condemning them, like a bug trapped in a spider’s web, to a certain fate.
The degredation of attitude and enthusiasm continues as the solid ground holding my morale in place is weathered and eroded by the roaring, rolling river of discontent sweeping over it. I wobble, my balance precarious, yet I never fall.
The ghastly faces of those I detest, livid and deformed, leer at me as I go about my business, their dull minds right at home in their congregation of deceit, where ability is no matter and only those with an axe to grind or a lie to spread seem to soar.
It is no matter to me. I continue alone on the long and winding road, my closest comrades having abandoned me, gone to a higher plane to forget about their ordinary lives and relax with family and friends, imaginary defences securely in place lest the ghosts of the past try to molest them. They will be back soon enough to face the fire.
And so, alone, defenceless, only hands, feet and mind to see me through and fight the darkness, those around me but bit players in this long and tiresome tale, struggling to make an impact in the news feed of my life, I will march again to the beat of the drum, a solemn duty to perform, motions to be enacted with no glamour or affection. Another day at work.
I will survive of course. I always do. There is not danger enough in this campaign to do me harm. Mind and body pass the most rigourous of tests. It is my spirit which is in mortal danger.
But after the trial has been enacted for another day, and the dust settles on another tepid performance, I will return to my hollow, deep down inside and I will wander the magnificent halls and passageways I have built for myself. And I will be happy.
Have a nice day.
Strange Notations From a Laborious Life 