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Always and forever

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The Tragedy of Life

Every man is broken into twenty-four-hour fractions, and then again within those twenty-four hours. It's a daily pantomime, one man yielding control to the next - a backstage crowded with old hacks clamouring for their turn in the spotlight. Every week, every day, the angry man hands the baton over to the sulking man, and in turn to the sex addict, the introvert, the conversationalist. Every man is a mob, a chain gang of idiots. This is the tragedy of life. Because for a few minutes of every day, every man becomes a genius and moments of clarity, insight, whatever you want to call them, are achieved. The clouds part, the planets get in a neat little line, and everything becomes obvious - 'I should quit smoking', maybe, or 'here's how I could make a fast million', or 'such-and-such is the key to eternal happiness'. That's the miserable truth - for a few moments, the secrets of the universe are opened to us. But then the genius, the savant, has to hand over the controls to the next guy down the line, most likely the guy who just wants to sit and eat chips, and insight and brilliance and salvation are all entrusted to a moron or a hedonist or a narcoleptic. The only way out of this mess, of course, is to take steps to ensure that you control the idiots that you become. To take your chain gang, hand in hand, and lead them. The best way to do this is with a list. It's like a letter you write to yourself - a master plan, drafted by the guy who can see the light, made with steps simple enough for the rest of the idiots to understand. Follow steps one through one hundred. Repeat as necessary. You may end up achieving something of note.

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Searching For a Former Clarity

He always looked as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. And maybe it was? Squinting, frowning, and sighing his way through life, his mind was a zoetrope of past triumphs and mistakes - all memories of days gone by and nothing he could change. His mind, his verve, his creativity, all atrophied because of this, because he could do nothing but remember, nothing but torment himself. He wasn't masochistic, and he had few regrets, it was just something he did on instinct - remember and contextualise. All those failed relationships, wasted opportunities, all things that had begun with such promise and ended in such disappointment constantly turned in his minds-eye through no fault of his own. He just sat there, as still and as silent as a statue, basking in it. And the sad thing was he never learned from these experiences, they were just there - constantly turning, round and round.

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Morning. Entitled 'Dream' #Dream Of what do you dream? Dream big, How big? Bigger and Bigger times infinite measure, Dream and NEVER cease to, Yet again, of what do you dream? To end child poverty and world hunger; to end war, Such a Dream can be achieved? Yes. Use what is in your hand. Your gift, Your talent, Your love, Lift it up for all to see, Shine a touch on it even in the dark, Speak it out loud at the top of your voice, Believe in your dream, It is your dream, And mine. ~words by Beatrice Ajayi #writings #poem #writer #artprose #words #change #changetheworld #word #love