New Days

Hmmm. Not much to say as a summary. Just some thoughts that have been swirling around in my head lately. I put pen to paper (well, in the figurative sense) and this is what came out.

 

New Days.

Endless ways of pushing the restart button over and over again until it locks into place and you’re forced to answer the questions that have barricaded themselves in your mind like they’re starting a revolution and making their last stand.

Who am I? Why am I here?

Simple sentences devised to make your lives enriched with knowledge, but what they don’t tell you is that you can only go so far. The journey is more important. But what’s the point in struggling if all you get at the end is a pat on the back?

Philosophy is dead. Man’s way of understanding.

Don’t you think that if everyone just stood up against the fat cats sitting on their iMacs with poverty and famine in the background that finally the clarity that has been tapping on the window for the last century can finally come in and join us beside the fire? We watch as the world is swallowed, the hors d'oeuvres to an insatiable hunger.

Onlookers to the apocalypse.

 Society’s mentality warped into productivity. Questions that remain outside of the cage are tossed or thrown away and we toil together day after day living in a self-made hell. But outside there are no air conditioners. Just like the violinists on Titanic we are sinking but only a few have the courage to accept it. Fighting is futile… isn’t it? Like watching a baby turtle flap its way across the sand, birds circling and crabs clicking like the orchestra at a funeral parade. The desperation knowing that your crusade will eventually fade into the backdrop of history.

But then you see it. Footprints. Indelible ink drops on the parchment of the past. Pioneers and paper- pushers alike. This path is worn in with the steps of weary travellers, staff and ideology in hand. Then you realise philosophy is not dead; it’s just a means to an end. The answers scratched carefully on prison walls and nailed onto doors at 3 in the morning.

How could I have not seen it?

You pick up your dreams like shattered pieces of glass strewn over the highway while cars drive past oblivious to your plight – the monotonous sound of balls and chains rattling and grinding as they continue towards their goal…

A mirage on the horizon.

 

The End

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